


Weightless

by bellinaball



Series: Weight [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 167,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinaball/pseuds/bellinaball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt's home after being sold into slavery. So much has gone right, but he still has to face the fallout of what happened and the reality of living in a world that doesn't have room for people like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Father and son didn't talk for a long while. Kurt could feel soft, hitching movements of the body under that oil-stained jumpsuit. His father didn't know whether to laugh or cry and so did both. "Dad," Kurt finally whispered, fingers knotting around the coarse material as he pleaded with himself not to wake up from some convenient dream.

"How did this happen?" Burt finally asked through a cracking voice. His hand clutched the back of Kurt's head. Below that, erupting from Kurt's back, were the two enormous wings that had led him to be sold into slavery. "Who was that boy?"

"My owner," Kurt said simply, but when he felt his father flinch at the word, added, "Blaine."

Angels were usually sold to billionaires with security teams and private jets. They were never sold back to the parents for the cost of a single nickel.

"Why did he...?"

"I don't know," Kurt said honestly.

His wings had appeared as school ended. The collar came soon after and he spent just under three weeks in a recovery cell. Kurt's life fell away from him on that narrow bed like pieces of colored glass dropping through his fingers: he would never see his father again. He would never find love. He would never again go to a movie with friends and make plans for the weekend. He would never again go shopping, sing on stage, graduate school, or even see a single face that had first known him as he was born.

People were stained glass windows, colorful and complex. When he'd been hauled out of that cell and shoved in a van for delivery, Kurt felt stripped bare of himself. Only a few bits of color remained. He clung to them fiercely while his name was stolen from him and his body was tortured, because it was the only possible victory he had left. He would last as long as possible before he ended up like the others he'd seen with wings: completely transparent.

Some of those scattered pieces of himself might be left for gathering. Some had been crushed to bright dust that blew away on the wind.

But there was one he had clasped in his hands. Kurt's perfect future of a fabulous life in New York City was gone forever. His name would never be cast in lights; he would always be a _thing_ first. He didn't know if his friends would truly see him like they once had.

His father did, though. He had Kurt locked in his arms, still unwilling to let go.

If absolutely nothing else, Kurt had that.

It was a slow morning. It must be a weekday. Customers arrived for oil changes at a steady clip on Saturday; on Sunday, the garage was closed. Kurt didn't know what day it was beyond that. As for the month, it might be August. Whatever the reason for it, he was glad for the quiet.

"We're going home," Burt finally said. The words were muffled by Kurt's hair and his own emotions. "You're going _home._ "

The words struck Kurt anew and he shivered as they threatened to overwhelm him. He tamped them down lest he lose control. It was over. It was all over.

He was going home.

  


* * *

It was harder than they expected.

The wings didn't fit in Burt's truck.

Such an unexpected problem, puzzling but harmless, actually made them laugh. The sound echoed through the garage and filled Kurt's heart with a lightness he hadn't felt since the days when the world called him human. He could have chosen to wallow at the reminder of those tremendous _things_ that had lead to his torture. Instead, Kurt chose laughter.

He'd fit into the back seat of that boy's sedan, sprawled flat, but a pickup cab had no such option. The open bed would provide more than enough room, of course, but he'd be a parade float going through town.

Kurt's smile did diminish a bit at that thought. Wherever he went for the rest of his life, they would see the wings first. Shaking it off, he refused to let the unexpected joy of that day escape. "Do you have a tarp? I can just lie down."

Burt gawked at him. "You're not serious."

"These clothes are awful and I want to go home," Kurt said, realizing more with each passing moment how much he meant it.

"But there're no seatbelts. What happens if I need to slam on the brakes?"

Kurt opened his mouth, couldn't find it in him to tell the whole story, and settled instead on, "It really won't be a problem, Dad."

"But—"

"Do you remember how these grew back?" he asked, flicking one hand over his shoulder. Burt nodded, mouth a thin line. He'd clipped his son's wings in the most brutal manner possible, and they'd grown back even from under cauterized scars. "Just... trust me, Dad. It won't be a problem if you need to slam on your brakes. Please, I want to go home."

With a look that promised a future telling of the story behind that comment, Burt went to prepare the truck.

Soon Kurt was bumping along on a bare metal bed under a sheet of blue, wincing at each pothole his father couldn't avoid. Quite a homecoming. The clothes provided by the cartel as part of his purchase were picking up every speck of dirt in that truck. Good, he thought: let them. They could be filthy when he burned them.

He tried to map their trek by sound and the turns made, but quickly lost track. It took him by surprise when they were slowing not to turn at an intersection, but to roll up a short incline while a garage door clicked open. Then that door returned, the engine died, and Burt was pulling open the tailgate a seeming second later. Relief washed over him when he saw Kurt was unhurt; no, Kurt corrected, when he saw that Kurt was still _there._ With one strong, swift movement he helped him free and then his arms wrapped around his son once more.

As before, they stood there for a long while. Kurt eventually said into his shoulder, "So here's the garage." He expected Burt to laugh, but tears started anew. "Dad, it's okay," he promised. "I'm here. I wasn't that far away. I'm okay."

"Yeah," Burt managed. "But I didn't know that."

Speech failed them for a while. There were only the soft sounds of breathing, the hum of the air conditioner through the wall, the occasional creaks of the truck's engine block cooling. His car was next to that truck, Kurt realized, covered in a layer of fine dust. It should have been driven. He'd gone into hiding in early May, so it had to be three or four months with an idle engine... Kurt started laughing despite himself.

"What?" Burt asked.

"I'm thinking about all the repairs my car might need," Kurt said. "I was just sold _out_ of slavery and I'm planning checks on fluid levels." He didn't know whether that was absurd or not. He had so many more important things to think about and he couldn't even sit in a driver's seat any more. But it was something to worry about that was home and _his_ , and being able to do so filled him with a strange kind of joy.

"That's my boy," Burt chuckled, ruffling his hair and then resting his cheek against the mess he'd made of it. But his good spirits faded. "Are you... you're smiling. You're laughing... are you okay?"

He pulled back far enough to look at Burt's face. In his father Kurt saw a man aged ten years since he'd left him. If he knew all that had happened, he might never get those years back. "It wasn't as bad as it could have been," he said.

Burt looked torn: he clearly wanted to accept that simple answer, but... "You can tell me, you know. Anything you want to talk about, anything in the world... I'll just be happy that I'm around to hear it and help."

He'd been raped. He'd been treated as property, had his humanity stripped away from him, and humiliated. He'd been forced to say that he loved everything happening to him. And when he thought he'd finally found an escape, the crushing pain of his own death wasn't even enough to break his bonds.

But he'd never been passed around between party guests as a target for whatever they wished to dole out. Games hadn't been made of cutting his flesh. Nudity was never wanted, but it was in private. Left in that recovery room as he grew accustomed to his collar, Kurt had prepared himself for the worst. Awful things had happened, but the worst possible hadn't. He didn't feel like he was lying at all when he repeated, "It wasn't as bad as it could have been."

Angels, when collared, were sold all over the world. A boy from Jordan might be shipped to Paris, a girl from Alabama might wind up in Tokyo. They were never just down the road and they never, ever came home. If one impossible thing had occurred, then perhaps nothing truly bad really had happened to Burt Hummel's son when he was taken. With each moment that passed, he seemed to convince himself of the argument more and more. "I'm here," he repeated. "Okay? Anything you want to talk to me about, anything you need me for... _anything._ I will do it. You just let me know."

Kurt nodded. The next question felt stupid, silly, and childish, but it was something that he was choosing to do in his own home. "Can we watch a movie?"

Surprised, Burt actually laughed, but he choked on his emotions halfway through and the noise garbled in his throat. "Sure," he managed. "We can do that."

Asked later, Kurt didn't even know what they'd watched. He only remembered the sensation of being curled against his father's shoulder, tears of relief occasionally dampening the fabric against his cheek. He remembered relaxing, and he remembered feeling safe.

  


* * *

The elements of his life fell into a natural hierarchy as Kurt returned home. First had been the confirmation that he was with his father. For all that he hated wearing the symbols of his captivity, changing into his own belongings fell well behind knowing that his father was real and that he wasn't about to wake from a dream.

When the credits had played and the music for the DVD menu was looping, Burt nudged him. "Do you want to go get cleaned up or anything? Anything you want to do. You just say it, we'll do it." His voice wavered and he chuckled again as he wiped at his eyes. "Eventually I'll be able to keep a handle on this, promise."

Kurt kissed him on the cheek, promising that he didn't mind _at all_ , and realized how much he did want to clean off the feeling of that place he'd left behind. "I'm going to go take a shower. A long shower. And then I will be back upstairs, okay?"

"Okay. I'll... I'll clean," Burt said. "I know you like a clean house."

Kurt nodded, making a point not to survey what his father must have let the house fallen into during the weight of his absence. He hadn't noticed upon entering, so it probably didn't matter. A lot of what he'd cared about before didn't matter, not really.

He got to choose what he wore, Kurt realized as he slowly walked downstairs. The last time he'd traveled those stairs, he'd been dragged up them by his captors. Shivering, he forced the memories away. Later. He'd deal with them later. The last time he'd been in that room, he'd been hiding for fear of his life. He'd deal with the memories _later._

He got to choose what he wore, he corrected as he looked at his closet, inside a very limited range. He hadn't altered much clothing, yet; while he'd certainly had time during his hiding, cutting apart shirts to add two holes to the back meant accepting that the wings were real. The boy in hiding hadn't wanted to do that any more than he had to.

Kurt only knew how to work with woven fabric. Attempting to alter his favorite knits would simply unravel them. Every sweater he owned was destined for Goodwill. The boy people had called human owned a lot of sweaters, he thought as he picked between the few shirts he could wear, plucked out a pair of jeans that matched, and headed into the bathroom.

It was difficult to remember how he'd fit himself into the small shower they'd installed for the basement. Though he hated to think of anything good at _that place_ , the bathrooms were ridiculously spacious. He never bumped against walls. But then, he reminded himself as he rinsed his shampoo and then turned his face to the water, in that house he'd been surprised in the shower. In that house, his owner's fascination with the wings had meant that his mouth said "yes" while his heart screamed "no."

Kurt's hand clutched tighter around the puff of nylon netting he was using to slough away dirt, dead skin, and memories. Blaine liked how he looked in the water. He thought the drops were pretty when they clung to his eyelashes.

His hand scrubbed harder.

Blaine was much hairier than Kurt. When he ground against him in the shower, he could feel that water-matted hair against his skin.

Shivering from the memory, his hand clutched tighter around the netting and he worked it even harder as he scrubbed.

An owner's hands roamed all over his body, mapping out every inch of the gift he'd been given for his birthday....

Kurt jerked back when he realized he was bleeding. His hand had pressed so hard and curled so deep that his fingernails tore lines across his skin. Breathing hard, he watched as the flesh of his thigh knit back together.

The pain snapped him back to the present. The water beating down on his head was lukewarm; soon it would be cold. He'd been in there for a long time. Not bothering with conditioner, he turned the handle hard and fumbled beyond the curtain for the towels.

It really wasn't as bad as it could have been. Nowhere close to it.

Kurt kept telling himself that as he dried himself. He'd convinced his father. Maybe he could convince himself. He'd get over it, or he'd have one giant embarrassing breakdown that would take him ages to think of without blushing, and everything would be fine.

Standing in that bathroom was a gift. Whatever had gone on in that boy's head, he'd done something unthinkable. Kurt refused to be _grateful_ to Blaine, not when he'd simply stopped doing something awful, but the situation itself... he should focus on how amazing it was and be glad for that. If he'd been sold to someone overseas, or even across the country, they couldn't have brought him home before their parents forbade them from making the trip. Blaine was probably in terrible trouble for _wasting_ his parents' money. If the wings had come in at a normal age, he would have been trained for years before he ever went on the market. He never would have argued to keep his real name; he wouldn't have even remembered it.

That was what happened to Angels. That was what the people who bought them wanted.

Breathing too fast and too deeply, he raised the lid of the toilet and only put it down when he was sure he wouldn't vomit.

His dad was waiting for him. Kurt finished drying, poked just enough at his hair to keep it from being a complete wreck, and slid into his clothes. He'd been so shaky doing alterations that Velcro held closed the slits around his wings. A more elegant approach with buttonholes would be in his future, hopefully. Jeans that had clung to him when he left were loose now; he'd lost weight that he didn't really have to spare, but with his appetite he didn't know how he could gain it back.

So many changes, he thought as he studied his reflection. Perhaps it was the weight loss or perhaps it was the suffering, but he looked older. That would be the last aging he saw in himself for a long, long time. He'd lost the rosy flush to his cheeks to a soft, creamy color with hints of gold. Of course, he realized; one needed red blood under them to make cheeks pink. Blaine had occasionally commented how pale he was _down there_ compared to his own ruddy erection.

Clutching the bathroom counter's edge in his hands, Kurt breathed hard again and forced back the urge to be sick.

Joy must have turned his father into some sort of cleaning dervish, Kurt thought as he forced himself to refocus on the present and return upstairs. He knew the house must have been a mess, but he could find very little to complain about. "Dad?" he said, and raised his voice when he realized he hadn't been heard over the vacuum. "Dad?"

The noise died and Burt hurried over to him. "Hey. How are you doing? Need anything?"

"I think I'm doing pretty good," Kurt decided on. When he was there, seeing Burt smile at him while trying not to acknowledge how openly he was fretting, the words really were true. "The house looks great. So much better than I was expecting." He shrugged awkwardly. "I guess I'm glad that you didn't... I don't know. Sink into some terminal depression."

"I almost did," Burt said softly. "I hardly moved for days. I finally had to talk to someone, and so I picked up and dialed Carole." He'd had to keep her away with increasingly short, implausible lies by the time Kurt was captured. Even in the basement, Kurt had picked up on the tension in that relationship as she clearly wondered what he was hiding. "And I said... 'They took him, Carole. They took him.' Then I lost it," he admitted. "She came right over. I told her everything. Sorry if you didn't want that, but...."

"It's okay." That explained why the house had been kept up and why his father had been stumbling through the motions of keeping the garage open. Carole Hudson had forced him to cling to life, probably against his will. Kurt wanted to kiss the woman.

"She'll really want to see you," Burt said. "She was crushed. Everyone was. She told Finn to come over and he just said...." Shaking his head, Burt almost whimpered out the quote. "This isn't _fair._ "

It wasn't. Nothing about what happened to people like him was fair. Kurt shivered again.

"She'll want to see you," Burt said carefully. "They both will. Is that okay?"

"Not today," Kurt said. "It is, it's okay. Just not today."

Nodding, Burt steered him back to the couch. Perhaps in some subconscious avoidance of what had made his son suffer, his hands never came near the wings; Kurt was glad of that, as it meant he wouldn't have to make an awkward explanation after an even more awkward groan. They fell into watching Kurt's favorite movies, the ones Burt would normally complain about, until a growling stomach interrupted them. With an apology for the interruption, Burt stood and began making himself a sandwich. His hand stilled in the fridge. "Are you still...?"

"I don't know what it is, Dad," Kurt said. "Meat just smells like... like death. I can't explain it. But I really can't be anywhere near."

"Not a problem," Burt easily said. "I'll just make a grilled cheese or something."

"Dad," Kurt said automatically. "You need to eat healthier." They grinned at each other as they realized how easily they'd recaptured that old dynamic. The world might only see the wings, but in that house, father saw son. "I'm just looking out for you," he added.

And he was looking out for himself, he had to admit.

His controller was tied to the thumbprint of one Mr. Burt Hummel. Kurt didn't know what would happen if his dad... _when_ his dad.... A full body shudder caught him, amplified in the longest flight feathers so much that Burt saw it from across the room. He was there in a second, promising that he didn't need to eat right then. "Let me make some food for you, Dad," Kurt whispered, clutching him. He didn't want to think about that. There was so much he couldn't think about, not yet.

"Kurt, you don't—"

"Please."

A vegetable soup, hearty with potatoes and carrots, passed without complaint. Kurt smiled over the dish they could share and put in another movie. He'd see Carole and Finn later. He'd see Mercedes later. He'd see all his friends later, deal with a plan for the rest of the year later, and come to terms with everything that had happened _later._ He'd worry about that controller later.

On that day he only wanted to fall asleep against his father, secure in the knowledge that for that moment, things were okay.

  


* * *

Though he'd wanted to sleep in his own room, reveling in the privacy, the plan didn't pan out. Kurt returned downstairs with an eye for more than a shower only to realize that the basement was a time capsule of his departure. Magazines lay open. An empty drinking glass sat on the desk. On everything rested a layer of dust matching the one that coated his car in the garage. The room was a historical monument to the boy who had lived there, including the sheets that hadn't been changed for months.

Wrinkling his nose at the musty surroundings, Kurt thought momentarily about cleaning. He was exhausted, though. It could wait until tomorrow. After changing into sleeping clothes he padded back upstairs, cast one glance at the couch, and walked past it.

"Dad?" he asked as his knuckles rapped on the doorframe. "Can I sleep in here?"

Settling in, he couldn't help but flash back to the last time he'd fallen asleep on that bed. The mutilation of slicing off his wings had still filled his mind. Despite that pain, things had seemed okay when he curled up next to his father like he had when he was a small boy hiding from nightmares. They weren't okay. He'd woken to sensations that he shouldn't be feeling, because they could only come from a part of his body they'd completely severed.

At that moment he was safe. During that night months ago, though, he'd thought he was safe. Would he wake up into some fresh hell like he had then?

"Hey," Burt said as he saw Kurt's quiet fear. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay from here on out." His larger hand sought out Kurt's and squeezed it; Kurt squeezed back. "Get some real sleep tonight. Tomorrow we'll get your room all fixed up."

"Okay," Kurt said, hoping his body would take that hint and fall asleep rather than running a constant feedback loop of anxiety. "Night. I love you."

"I love you _so much_ ," he heard in return, and the anxiety did ease some tiny bit.

Burt's snoring should have kept him awake. Instead it was an anchor keeping him in that house, with his family, and Kurt trusted it to keep away any unwanted dreams. Sleep finally came, deep and restful. When he woke Kurt knew it had been the right sleeping decision, as he immediately saw his father. He could feel wings, but a quick check of his throat said the collar was securely in place. He'd experienced hell but he was out the other side. He was still home, it wasn't a dream, and things could only get better.

"Go call the garage," Kurt prompted his sleepy father when he saw the time on the clock. Burt ignored the words in favor of smiling at him like he was the sun risen after a long winter. "I'm here," he laughed. "Go call work."

He could hear Burt's voice floating down the stairs when Kurt made an effort at his old morning routine in his bathroom. He needed Jim to head things up for a while at the garage. Nothing bad, he promised. It was a family thing, and important, but it was good. He'd fill everyone in on things later.

Kurt's hand stilled as he brushed his hair. Eventually the guys at the garage would hear. Would they want to see him? They'd known him for years, ever since he started coming by there with the freedom granted by a bicycle. They'd probably want to see him. And in their eyes he'd be _different._

"Carole," Burt said in amazed disbelief, and Kurt flinched again. He _wanted_ to see the woman. But he could only count on his father, really, to see him before the wings. It'd hurt a little every time someone took a while to meet his eyes. "He's back."

There was a short pause.

"Yes, _Kurt._ He's back!" Laughter floated down the stairs. "It's really him!" Another pause. "Yeah, he still has them."

Kurt shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't know how. It's like some miracle or something. Sure, come on over! Hmm? Just yesterday. He was really tired, but he said today was okay. See you soon. Love you, too." Soon Burt was halfway down the stairs, happily saying that Carole was coming over and she was waking up Finn, too; that was okay, right?

"Of course," Kurt said around a smile he didn't wholly feel. The more excited he let himself become, the worse it would be if someone let him down. "I'll come upstairs in just a second."

"Okay." Burt grinned at him. "Love you."

"I love you too, Dad," Kurt said, smiling more genuinely. "I'm still here."

"Just checking. I'll go make breakfast."

"Remember, I don't want much!" he yelled after him, but suspected his words would be ignored. Determined to make the best impression possible, to look like he'd used to rather than some suffering ex-slave, Kurt continued working in front of the mirror. His outfit would be as stylish as possible, given the small selection. His hair would be perfect.

When the doorbell rang, a frisson of fear rooted Kurt to the spot. He had his dad. If he had to make it with absolutely nothing else in the world, he could. But oh, it would hurt each time he learned he couldn't recapture some piece of his old life. Swallowing hard, he dug deep within himself and ascended the stairs.

The door was open. He could hear excited conversation at the far end of the hall.

Feeling as if he was ready to flee if things didn't go well, even though running was the one thing he could never truly do, Kurt edged around the corner and put himself into the sightline of the front entry. Finn, with his clear view over Burt's shoulder, was the first to go silent. Carole soon followed.

 _Please_ , Kurt begged, though he knew fate had no love for him. Please, let them see _him_.

"Kurt!" Carole yelled, and pushed her way past Burt. She took the intervening distance with surprising speed. Before she pulled him into a hug, he had time to record her appearances in flashes: no makeup. Hair half-styled. Misaligned buttons on her shirt. It was the appearance of someone who'd dropped everything to bolt out her front door. Her embrace was so firm and fast that it knocked the wind out of his lungs, and he had to regain his breath before he processed that tears were running down her face.

"Hi," he managed. Looking over her shoulders revealed that the others had joined them. Finn looked disbelieving, but happy even as he cried. Burt's kneejerk emotions had caught up with him, too. "Everyone's crying."

"We're just so happy, sweetie," Carole promised him. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know," Kurt said. He didn't know if he ever really would. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he'd gone through all the stages of grief, including acceptance. Forced onto a pet's bed, he'd never expected anything more from his life than that.

"Was it bad?" Finn asked in a rush. Everyone tensed.

"Not as bad as it could have been," Kurt said in the same smooth tone he'd used for Burt, who clearly noticed the repetition. Whether it was unsettling or comforting, his father didn't quite seem to know. Finn accepted it completely, though, and his smile seemed to crack his face in half.

Only then did Carole pull back just enough to look past Kurt, and her desperate embrace loosened. "They're so big," she said faintly.

"Thanks," Kurt landed on for an answer. She seemed bemused by that, and he clarified, "For not saying anything about them until now."

Thanks, he added in his head, for seeing him as a person first.

"I made breakfast!" Burt said proudly. "We can all eat breakfast together, okay? All of us."

But they couldn't. Burt had made pancakes, clearly thinking they'd be suitable, but they looked heavy and unappetizing. Watching the three of them pile on butter and syrup made Kurt's nerves fire again. A bite there meant one minute less on some future deathbed; soaking up the sweet streaks on the plate might be two or three minutes lost. He plucked nervously at an orange and forced himself to eat his fill, which still wasn't much.

"Sorry," Burt said, swiping away a drop of artificial maple syrup from where Finn had done a poor job of capping it. "I thought you would like this."

Shrugging, Kurt forced a smile. "More for you guys."

The first Angel had appeared in 1959. She, soon it, was from Italy. At first she was a sign from above, a miracle. That little girl was respected as she aged.

Then a little girl grew wings in India, and a little boy got them in Rhodesia. That girl from the land of Sophia Loren had been a miracle, but the elite of the world had been more willing to view children elsewhere as _things_ that they wanted. Just as tourism offices painted their homes as strange, exotic attractions filled with no people better than scenery, the rich found it very easy to stop calling the third and second children 'human.'

Rights began to drip away like water, and soon it was easier to do the same to that girl in Italy. The most popular explanation in those first days was something to do with the Space Race. Mutants. Aliens. As more children—Angels—were found each year, and they became a badge of luxury like yachts, people stopped bothering with any explanation at all. No one tried to explain why some animals were fortunate enough to have beautifully soft fur; who cared why they made such wonderful coats?

Kurt knew all of that history.

He knew that the first little girl from Italy had looked nineteen years old since the Sixties.

He wondered if her parents were still alive. They might be, if they were very old.

"Kurt?" he heard Carole ask, and he realized he'd zoned out. Everyone was looking at him with concern.

"I was just thinking about how I need to clean my room," he said with false cheer. "And I need to start adding some things to the grocery lists again, and do laundry, and... oh, lots of things."

"I can run some errands," Carole promised. "I called in to work. Anything you need to me to pick up, you just let me know."

Nodding, he went to put together a list of some staples for himself, then added some ingredients he could hopefully foist on the rest of them. That was turned over to Burt for approval, though; he'd have to move slowly on this, and give him some room to add in unhealthy things so he wouldn't complain. He put together a second list for a fabric store. Buttons, edging tape, scissors... he had a lot of work ahead of him.

"No," he said when they looked at the lists and asked him if he just wanted to take it easy and not think about all the minutia of daily living. "No, I want to do things. It feels good to be home, doing something productive." His mind dabbled in dangerous waters when it was allowed to sit unoccupied.

"Finn," Burt said. "Go down and help him. I'll get the rest of the stuff up here handled while Carole's out shopping, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll help. But... this sounds dumb, but seriously, how? How are you here?" Finn asked. He seemed confused and slow, like he was recovering from a long illness.

"The boy I was sold to," Kurt explained. "He drove me here and sold me back to Dad. I don't know why."

"Burt _owns_ you?" Finn said, gawking at the concept, but then caught up and smiled. "You own him!" he said more brightly. "So no one else can!"

"Bingo," Burt said as he beamed.

"It's a little weird," Kurt admitted. "But there's no one else I'd trust more in the world, of course." Burt kept smiling at him like he was a miracle, and it was simultaneously sweet and overwhelming. "I'm going to go downstairs, now. Just thinking about those sheets is practically giving me hives."

So that was how Kurt wound up in the basement, avoiding Finn's open stare as they pulled back the covers on his bed. He was very interesting, he supposed. The vast majority of the world would never see an Angel, not even from a great distance. They were in photographs, nothing more, and photographs couldn't capture the real size of the wings or the way the light wrapped softly around each individual feather. He knew they were beautiful. It was why everyone dreamed about them, and why the bodies to which they were attached were a secondary concern.

"You've gotta admit," Finn said as he began stripping sheets. "It's a little weird that your dad owns you."

"Someone has to," Kurt shrugged as they worked on cleaning his room. As much as he hated to admit that, it was true.

Finn didn't seem to like it any more than he did. "So you're coming back to school, right? Everyone freaked when they heard you were gone. Big, giant tears everywhere. But now you're back," he said as his voice turned up in pitch and a smile returned, "and so it'll be like nothing happened!"

"Finn," Kurt sighed as he held out a laundry bag and Finn stuffed in the sheets, "I can't."

"It'll be okay! If anyone tries to mess with you, they'll have to go through all of us." He stepped back and looked Kurt over critically. "I guess it might be hard for you to fit in a desk, but they've got those laws that say they have to work with Artie, right? They've got special desks and stuff. I bet they can—"

"Finn," Kurt cut in loudly when his pointed looks didn't work. "I literally cannot go back to school."

"Why not?" Finn asked.

"Because I can't register for classes. They can't award me a diploma." Seeing Finn's confusion, Kurt dropped the laundry bag and folded his arms across his chest, hugging himself. "The cartel started the process as soon as they took me. They told me everything they did, so I'd know there was nothing left but my sale. My birth certificate has been shredded in the state files. The DMV has deleted me. I don't have a Social Security Number any more."

"Seriously?" Finn gawked. "But that's...."

"I know." Kurt's fingers plucked at his collar. It was a nervous habit in the making, he could tell; he needed to stop. "In the eyes of the law, my dad never had a son. All he has now is a piece of property. Like his truck."

Sounding wholly, heartbreakingly confused, Finn said, "But that's not fair."

He'd used that line a lot, it seemed.

"Not disagreeing with you," Kurt shrugged, and gathered his laundry. When he straightened he saw Finn typing at his phone, and the clothes and sheets wound up on the floor again as he lunged. "No!"

Finn stared in confusion at his empty hands. "I was just telling people you were back."

"Did you send any of them yet?" Kurt asked intently.

"Just Rachel."

"God," Kurt mourned, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm not ready for this yet." He could hear his phone begin to buzz on the nightstand, where it had sat plugged-in for months, and felt tension wrap around him like wires. "Will you tell them not today, at least?"

"But everyone'll be so excited to see you," Finn said, sounding younger with each word. "Don't you want to see everyone?"

"I do, I promise, I just... I have to space it out, in case they don't see me."

"They'll want to see you!" Finn insisted.

That wasn't what he'd meant, but Kurt suspected he couldn't explain it to Finn. "I'm just tired, still," he said instead, and Finn nodded and reached for his phone. When Kurt returned it, a quick series of taps followed and the cacophony of texts soon fell away from Kurt's nightstand.

"You're tired? Are you okay?" Finn asked, reaching out to him, and Kurt skittered away.

"Don't touch them," Kurt said reflexively.

Holding up his hands, Finn gulped that he wouldn't. "Sorry. Do they hurt? No? That's good." He bit at his lip. "Are they heavy?"

They weren't. They were taller than he was, and although much of the surface was nothing more than sleek feathers, the structure below those was strong. Physically they weren't heavy at all, even though that shouldn't be so. "Practically weightless," Kurt answered.

They weren't heavy like they should be because he wasn't _normal_ any more. On someone with red blood, something that size would be heavy. Gold blood meant they were impossibly light, even as they stole his future and freedom from him. In terms of pounds they might be nearly weightless, but to Kurt's heart they were so heavy he could barely move.

"Will you go help my dad for a while?" Kurt finally asked when they'd stood there for a while in awkward silence.

"Do you want to take a nap? You said you were tired. You should sleep," Finn decided. "I'll let you sleep. Wait, we need to put on sheets first. Then you can sleep."

The more Finn said 'sleep,' the more appealing it sounded. But when they'd prepared the bed and Kurt had collapsed onto it face-forward, answering Finn's question of how he arranged himself with, you know, _those_ , it didn't come.

His schedule had been strictly regimented. Kurt woke at an appointed time, was available to Blaine as desired, and, unless told to offer himself then, sank into bed at a regular hour. Occasionally Blaine changed his mind in the middle of the night and wanted Kurt to join him in his _human_ bed. Those nights had been the worst. Blaine was a deep sleeper, and so was heavy and awkward when he stirred. Not wanting to get out of bed to wake Kurt, he just grabbed the controller off his nightstand and shocked his body into awareness with the feeling of electricity coursing through his body.

Blaine's mother had complained once about the screaming.

Her son promised her that they would both be better: he would try to get up and wake him with his hand, and in return 'Jophiel' would be quieter on the nights when he didn't want to put his feet on the cold floor. Kurt had bitterly commented on his 'alarm clock,' once, but Blaine seemed genuinely confused. He always used the lowest setting. No one would think twice about getting an Angel's attention with a controller, and certainly not at the lowest setting. It was nothing more than tugging on a dog's leash.

Kurt had hated those parents even more than Blaine. He didn't know if he could _hate_ Blaine, now, not after what he'd done, though he knew the boy would always be associated with horrific memories. Those parents, though... it was all their fault in the first place.

There was probably a lot of yelling in that house, Kurt thought as he waited futilely for sleep. He wondered where the house was. Blaine's car had an Ohio license plate on it, but he didn't know the town. He didn't even know the family's last name; a pet had no need of it.

He'd managed a few shallow naps against Burt the day before, but that attempt was useless. The effort to sleep only left him irritated and groggy, and it was in that mood that he eventually walked upstairs for dinner. Finn intercepted him and began telling him that Mercedes had claimed the first visit, and everyone said that was okay, but then people would just come over when she said she was done. Maybe that way, Kurt could see all his friends at once!

Burt caught the way Kurt's expression dropped and cleared his throat. "Call 'em back, Finn. Tell them Kurt will say it's okay to come over when _he's_ ready."

"But everyone's really excited," Finn said, confused and frowning.

"I'm just tired," Kurt said, and thankfully the excuse worked again. A bag from the craft store sat on the coffee table, he saw. When he wasn't busy telling people that nothing was as bad as it could have been, and watching them stare at his wings rather than meet his eyes, then he could work on cutting apart his wardrobe to fit his new life.

He felt immature and ungrateful, but Kurt wanted to demand of the world why things couldn't be _fixed._ He had his dad, and Carole and Finn had both stared at his face for a blessedly long time before they ever looked at his shoulders. But his words from earlier returned to him: the state, in accordance with federal law, had shredded his birth certificate.

The person known as Kurt Hummel never existed.

He was like his father's truck.

One day, that father would die.

Things were so much better than the life to which he'd resigned himself, but they were nowhere near fixed.

"Kurt?" Carole gently asked when he picked at a bowl of wild rice. "You can talk to us, you know. We know you must have been through a lot."

Kurt glanced at Burt. Life was starting to flood back into the man's face. "It was just hard hearing myself referred to as property," he said. "I'm tired. I'm glad I get to rest at home, but it wasn't that bad."

"Really?" Finn asked, like he knew it couldn't really be true but desperately wanted it to be. The comforting lie was like a security blanket in that house, it seemed, and it got passed around.

"Really." What would he do if one of his friends called him 'it?' Was he going to have to tell each and every one of them that no, he couldn't come back to New Directions, since that was for students at that school and the law said he could never return? He might have to tell all of them not to touch his wings, and explain _why._ It would be unspeakably humiliating.

And there would be the conversation with Rachel.

She'd be the worst.

"We're staying here, if that's all right," Carole said hopefully. "I picked up our bathroom stuff when I was out. Finn said he'll take the couch."

Well, he supposed that made a final decision about whether he was sleeping in the privacy of his room or next to his snoring father, Kurt thought. "Of course." He smiled. "It'll be nice to have everyone around." Both of them had seen _him._

"Leave your door open," Finn suggested. "I'm totally wired, so if you just call up for water or anything I bet I'll wake right up. I'll get it for you, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt said. It almost felt like he was letting everyone down by not being cheerful and perpetually overjoyed to be home. His one role in life, after all, was to be what people expected of him. He couldn't be a person, so he was supposed to be a fantasy.

They seemed confused and worried when sadness rolled across his face, but Kurt waved it off with a line about missing choir that year. It had the ring of truth to it and so they told him good night, said they'd see him tomorrow, and watched him descend the stairs like a family holding onto the last possible seconds of someone at an airport.

It was the appointed hour at which he was allowed to sleep, and exhaustion came on quickly. So did dreams, and Kurt fell into them like a canyon.

It was difficult to see Blaine as he truly was. In reality he was a pleasant-looking boy with a solid but unremarkable build. Free, Kurt would have looked at him in different ways, he imagined. As his property it was difficult to see anything good about him.

His lips curled not into smiles but into cruel sneers, and his unremarkable body was muscled heavily enough to be a threat. His hands cradled the instrument of Kurt's torture. Not a day went past without Kurt's collar firing, and even the lowest setting felt like electrical current being run through his head or legs or groin or hands. The higher settings felt like he was being burned alive. Flayed. Cut open. If Kurt dared repeat his behavior he would face that suffering again; if he gave in, he would be stroked like a pet and given a bit of food or praise that would suffice for an animal.

In the fortunate moments he was treated like an animal.

In the unfortunate ones he was treated like a sex toy. Kurt's expression shifted in his sleep as he flashed back to the feeling of Blaine's hands stroking him. The collar imprisoned his body, but his body imprisoned his heart and mind. He was cursed into slavery because of the damned wings, but it was as if they weren't satisfied with that. No, they had to turn his own body into a way to torture him.

This torturer, this _owner_ could simply touch him... and Kurt was left begging for more. A sliver of awareness screamed at him to stop. It wasn't enough to override the pleasure from Blaine's touch. It was enough to make him remember.

Blaine had kept touching them when he pulled out that controller, forced Kurt to the ground under its pain and....

Kurt twitched on the bed. His breath came in unsteady hitches as he dreamed.

Blaine came in fast. Something tore inside Kurt and he could feel the pressure of Blaine's thrusts tear it open over and over even as his own body tried to heal. Pain fired through Kurt, worse than anything the collar could ever do... because it was real. The falsehood of skin peeling off would make for nightmares, nothing more. The reality of Blaine filling him, hot and hard and unwelcome, would last forever. That was his reality. That was his life. Pain, violation, humiliation. He'd been reduced to a hot tunnel of flesh around a slaveowner's cock. That would always be his first time and nothing in his life would be any different.

And because Blaine kept his hands on those _fucking_ wings, through all the terror and agony Kurt still felt pleasure. It coursed through his veins and pooled in his stomach like bile.

When Blaine walked out after, Kurt stumbled to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. He had little inside him; soon only acid came up. It burned.

He'd known this was coming. He'd long since accepted that this would be his life.

Never had Kurt thought that his own body would force him, at least in part, to enjoy it.

Shakily, Kurt stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was cold in the bathroom, even in summer. The tiles seemed to reflect his own exhaustion onto his naked, trembling form like a hall of mirrors. Hand wavering like a leaf in the wind, he moved to turn on the water so that he might wash out his mouth.

That hand froze on its way and instead closed around a small pair of nail scissors.

Paintings. Blaine kept talking about _paintings_ , about how he thought Kurt was pretty and perfect and his fantasy that he'd always wanted. He was his gift, meant to be his forever and ever.

Kurt's hand stopped shaking when he flipped open the scissors, exposed one sharp edge to the air, and drew it across his face. He pressed hard. Flesh split below his hand. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out, and when he'd marked himself from forehead to chin he moved to cut himself on a different angle.

It was futile. The cut on his face was a line of gold, not red, and it vanished as he considered a second cut. Not even a scar marked its short life, just as his arm looked untouched where Blaine's friend had sent a blade against his bone earlier.

Imprisoned in his body in every possible way.

Kurt had thought he was prepared for that day. He thought he'd accepted it. When he collapsed onto his small bed along one wall, clothes pulled loosely on and hair a shambles, tears burst free. They didn't stop for hours.

"Kurt!"

He jerked up but there was someone _on top of him_ , pressing on the space between his shoulder blades and trying to keep him down. "No!" he almost shrieked, scrambling toward the headboard so frantically that he ripped a sheet corner out from under the mattress. "No, no, no," he choked out, hoping that this time it would work, and soon he was knotted around that single word as he leaned against the headboard like a wall in a bunker.

It took that long to realize Finn was staring at him. His hand still hung in the air from where he'd jostled Kurt awake. "Kurt?" he asked like the name might set off a bomb.

For a few seconds breaths moved in and out. He was awake. He'd been dreaming. That was all. "It wasn't as bad as it could have been," Kurt said automatically.

It was the middle of the night, but only then did Finn look tired.


	2. Chapter 2

"Here," Finn said as he passed over a glass of juice. "Mom picked this up earlier. Added it to the list. Burt told her to get white grape, instead of normal... hope that's okay."

Kurt smiled a little as he accepted the offer. With the delay of Finn going upstairs, his pulse had slowed and reality returned. "He spilled some dark juice on an old couch. I spent days trying to get the stain out of the cushions before he finally made me give up. It was always white after that. I insisted." His hands flexed around the smooth curve of the glass and Kurt finally continued, "Don't tell him."

"That you wanted white grape juice?" Finn asked, completely befuddled.

"That I had a nightmare," Kurt said before he took a sip. "That I freaked."

"You shouldn't hide stuff from him," Finn said, sitting on the edge of Kurt's bed with a respectful space between them.

"He knows what happened, Finn. In general he must know, even as he tries to deny it. Everyone knows what happens when you're sold." Another sip. "But he doesn't need to know specifics. It'd...." Kurt sighed. "It'd break him. And if I'm having nightmares, then it's something that needs to be talked about and he'd hear specifics."

"He's your dad, Kurt," Finn said uncertainly. "I think it's okay if you lean on him after... after _this._ "

Kurt immediately shook his head. "You just don't know. You didn't see his face when they were dragging...." A flashback swept him. He'd been pinned down in _that room_ while strangers fastened a collar around his neck. Electricity coursed through his body when they slammed down a pin at the closure of the collar and its spike shot into his spinal column.

He hadn't even been able to tell his father goodbye when they dragged him out. His mouth wasn't working yet. Burt had been on the floor, forehead stamped with the butt of a gun, sobbing with his cheek flattened under a booted foot.

It suddenly processed that his feet were wet and cold. Kurt, startled, looked down and saw that he'd dropped his glass from numb fingers.

Finn frowned, but got up silently to retrieve a wad of toilet paper to claim the spilled juice. "You should talk to him."

Kurt shook his head. He'd been hiding in _that room._ It would take some doing to associate the house with fresh memories. "No, I can't. He thinks he failed me. Never mind that he never had a chance, neither of us did. He can't know. He can't have specifics. He'd blame himself for all of them."

"You should talk to _someone_ ," Finn allowed. "All you've been saying is 'not as bad as it could have been,' but that still leaves a whole lot of wiggle room." His shoulders worked uncomfortably. "And... and you were saying 'no, no.'"

He should have closed the door.

"Kurt?" Finn eventually prompted. His voice was a strange combination of hope, nerves, and the placating tone one might use for a scared animal. But despite the fact that he was clearly trying to help, it seemed like he was the one needing comfort. "Just. You know. Do you want to talk about it? You should. You need to talk about it."

"What I need to do," Kurt said definitively, "is to wash off my feet before the juice dries." Head high, he walked into the bathroom and turned on a small, quiet stream of water. It was hard to perch elegantly on the side of a bathtub as he hitched up his pajama pants somewhere around his knees, but he made the attempt.

"Come on," Finn wheedled. "You should talk."

Kurt eyed him sidelong. "This is sounding less like you think I need to talk, and more like _you_ want to talk." The water was warm by then, and so he stuck his feet under the stream.

"I just want to hear that they didn't... you know." Finn's face twisted. "Make you do... stuff."

Kurt sat for a while before replying, "I could tell you that."

It didn't fool Finn. "But you'd be lying."

"But I'd be lying." Seeing Finn's anguished expression, he quickly said, "Don't tell him. All he knows is that my owner sold me back. It was probably the happiest moment of his life. If he hears all this, then he'll spend hours, _years_ hating himself for...." Kurt laughed helplessly. "For not beating him up before he drove off. Let him keep his moment."

"But...," Finn began, only to trail off. "At least talk to Mom?"

Kurt shook his head and turned off the water. "Grab me a towel? And no. She'd tell him everything."

"Talk to me? Or Mercedes, I guess, but... but someone?"

Accepting the towel as Finn handed it over, Kurt stared at its soft, well-worn form for so long that Finn repeated his question. "He could make me say I wanted things when I didn't," Kurt settled on. "He'd just keep going, never stopping to let me catch my breath. He'd never ask what I really wanted."

"You mean... sex stuff," Finn clarified, though he sounded like the question hurt him physically as it left his lips. Not from awkwardness over asking, Kurt was heartened to realize, but from horror that such things had ever been done. "Did he ever...?"

"I think he was nervous," Kurt began, but he could see Finn's sudden hopes die as he continued, "So it was just once, all the way. Mostly he just touched. He liked to watch me, most of all. A couple of times I had to, you know. Kneel down. But mostly he touched me."

"Oh my God," Finn almost whimpered. "And you... you keep poking that metal thing. Does it hurt?"

Realizing he was nervously stroking his collar again, Kurt forced his hand away. "No, I was just thinking back. It can hurt, but it doesn't hurt right now. That's... it's how he forced me. It fired and I couldn't stand up. So he came down." His heart fluttered in his chest. "But it was better than it was going to be. He had a bed downstairs. There was a party and everyone was going to watch. It was better than that."

Finn opened his mouth, but Kurt saw the words coming and said with sudden ferocity, "You are _not_ telling him."

"Kurt!"

"No. Let him keep his best day."

Sighing like someone old and tired, Finn splashed water on his face and stared at the mirror. "Okay. I won't. And I can go back upstairs, or I could grab a sleeping bag and—"

"It'd be really nice if you came down," Kurt said, knowing that he sounded young and vulnerable but not having it in himself to hide it.

"Sure." With one last splash of water, Finn turned to him. "I can't believe this all happened."

"It's what we're sold for," Kurt replied. The knot in his stomach grew and twisted in on itself again. "Anyone who'd buy an Angel... they're not doing it to be nice."

With a few choice words about how this was far past 'not nice,' Finn hurried up the stairs and promised to be back soon. The absence gave Kurt time to think about how very 'not nice' all those owners were, and how many people just like him were locked inside collars that were seen as alarm clocks and leashes instead of instruments of torture.

No, anyone who'd buy an Angel was far past 'not nice.'

Kurt was used to sleeping with someone in the same room, he hated to admit. Finn wasn't a threat, though. He was like his dad, not like his owner. He wouldn't wake him to order Kurt to finish off an erection from a sex dream, of that Kurt was _very_ sure.

No, Kurt thought as he heard the slow, steady sounds of Finn breathing as he slept. He'd tell Finn some things, to head him off, but he couldn't tell him everything and he could never tell his dad. This was his cross to bear.

His nose wrinkled.

Cross to bear.

Jophiel.

He really needed to avoid any religious imagery.

  


* * *

"Oh my God!" Mercedes almost screamed as she barreled down the stairs the next morning. She impacted Kurt like Carole had, knocking the air out of his chest, but her gaze was on his wings rather than his face. Though Kurt's heart thudded somewhere around his ankles at how she saw them before him, she made up for it by saying, "I hate those fucking things."

The unexpected word actually made him laugh, and when she heard the sound Mercedes pulled him in for tearful, sloppy kisses on both cheeks. "Are you okay?" she demanded.

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been," Kurt said like a bad habit. She hadn't heard it before, and so she accepted it with visible relief.

"Can you get rid of them?" she asked. "I know you couldn't before, when they were watching you, but—"

"We tried cutting them off. They grew back."

"Oh," she said sadly. Her dark eyes glistened with tears; he didn't know when they'd formed. "Do they... you know, squish at all? We could strap them down, and... no?"

She wanted to take him back out into the sun, Kurt knew. She wanted to give him the remnants of the summer that had been stolen from him. She couldn't. "It's bone. They don't really... squish," he said almost like an apology. "But it's okay, I... Mercedes!" he said as she pulled him to the stairs, and then the front door.

"Well, you know, it'll be okay. We don't have to hide them, not really. You're home," she said intently. "I promise, you can walk outside, you can go to movies with me and everything, and no one will care. The whole town knew an Angel came from here, and they just think it's amazing that one came _back._ They'll be happy to see you, I promise. Not as happy as me," she clarified, "but you're really home." Her smile was the biggest he'd ever seen when she added, "I love you, and you are really, really home."

"Um," was all he managed to say as his best friend almost pushed him out the front door. He could see Burt's eyes when he glanced back, heavy with concern, and the man was clearly ready to bolt forward if needed. At that moment Kurt actually missed Finn's clueless, gentle fumbling. Mercedes was on a mission to return his entire life to him by force, if needed.

"See?" she said, spreading her arms to the town.

Kurt hugged himself again and realized the neighbors were staring. Mrs. Pritchard, seventy-six years old, who'd made endless meals for the two of them after his mother died, was watering her flowers. The hose fell from her hand and landed on the driveway; the water, forgotten, cascaded to the street. Her son Gary abandoned his kneejerk question of whether she was okay to stare at Kurt, too.

Weakly, he raised his hand in greeting.

Neither of them ever looked at his face.

Gary's mastiff, a massive dog who'd terrified Kurt for years every time he rushed the fence, whimpered behind its slats. For the first time ever, he wasn't growling. Instead, after he sniffed the air between two strips of wood, he crouched quietly down and put his head between his paws. His eyes never left Kurt.

Kurt really wished the animal would growl at him again. That was just unsettling.

"See?" Mercedes said excitedly, waving at his neighbors. They knew her; she'd been there often enough. Mrs. Pritchard and Gary waved slowly back. "Everyone'll be so happy to see you!"

"I'd really rather go back inside," Kurt said with nervous laughter, and she accompanied him to the living room.

"Finn told me everything," Mercedes began when they were seated and Kurt nearly leapt off the cushion to slam a hand across her mouth. His father was in the kitchen and could hear every word. "When I walked in, he said that you went through some stuff, but it wasn't that bad and you're mostly tired, right?"

Startled, Kurt looked at Finn as the other boy passed on his way down the hall and got a weighty stare in return. Some bit of tension inside him unraveled. "Right," Kurt promised. "I'm just tired. And, you know, these are heavy. I'll have to do toning exercises or something." That was a good lie; non-existent toning exercises could be pulled out for a convenient excuse whenever he wanted it, and they could leave him so sore than he wouldn't want to see anyone.

"Yeah you will," Mercedes laughed. Her hands never left his, and with his lie about being little more than tired, she seemed to want nothing more than to make up for all the gossip and giggling they'd missed together. Mercedes had never put too much thought into Angels, not like some of them, and so she seemed more than willing to focus on the present instead of the past. "Rumor has it that Sue Sylvester is going to track you down and put you front and center again by _force._ "

"What?"

"Don't kill the messenger! I'm just warning you."

"I can't," he said blankly. "I'm not going back to school."

"What?" Mercedes asked, dropping his hands. "What do you mean, you're not going back?"

"They wouldn't let me register." She really hadn't thought about Angels, or she wouldn't look so surprised. It was easy to imagine Finn being surprised by toast popping up, and so of course he hadn't thought about the legalities of Kurt's new life, but Kurt had expected Mercedes to understand more of what he faced.

"But your dad could just go down there and—"

"No, Mercedes. No," he repeated when she shook her head and looked irritated at his answer. "I can't register for school any more than... than this fork can," he said, holding it up from a breakfast plate left on the coffee table.

"Okay, maybe no other Angel goes to school, but they never came home!" She looked frustrated. "Maybe you'd be different if you just tried, okay?"

If he _tried?_ Kurt was saved from trying to give an answer by the loud, pointed clearing of a throat over Mercedes' shoulder. "Hey," Burt said genially. "I know you kids have gotta be happy about catching up, but I'm forcing Kurt to take it easy for a while. You can come see him again soon, okay?"

"Finn told everyone he was tired, yeah," Mercedes said. Her relief was obvious: Kurt wasn't fighting because he was tired. After he recovered, he would walk into those halls with his head held high, demand to be registered, and rejoin everything like nothing had happened. They'd be faced with no challenge greater than figuring out how to manage the choreography during performance numbers. "Okay. I'll talk to you later?" she asked hopefully, and her smile wholly returned when Kurt nodded. "I just knew," she confided in them before she left. "I _knew_ things couldn't be this bad."

Kurt opened his mouth to say goodbye, but then Mercedes impishly leaned forward and stroked down one of his wings. As he tried to bite back his groan, she promised him that they looked fabulous and they were going to have so much fun figuring out how to show them off.

Though he hadn't meant to, Kurt let a sigh of relief escape when the door closed behind her. He saw Burt looking at him with concern and asked, "What?"

"Did she hurt you? When she touched you, you—"

"Oh God." Kurt blushed, feeling the warmth spread across his cheeks, and distantly wondered what he looked like with a new color of blood. If his cheeks _sparkled_ or something similarly Twilight-ridiculous when he blushed, he might have to make a more concerted effort to kill himself. "No."

"But—"

Kurt backed away before Burt could make contact. "They don't feel bad, they feel good." He saw the confusion and repeated, wishing he didn't have to, "They feel... good, Dad. When they're touched they feel _good._ Okay?"

"Oh." Burt's hand didn't just move away from Kurt, it whipped back to his side like he was backing away from a dangerous animal. His face was pale. "Well. It's good she didn't hurt you."

"I can't register for school," Kurt said for a change in topic.

"I know. I already called to check. Don't worry, we'll figure something out," Burt promised him, but didn't pull him into a hug like he might have before. Of course, Kurt realized sadly. He might brush the wings by accident.

"I'm going to go catch up on more... things for a while before anyone else shows up, okay?" Kurt said when they'd stood there in awkward silence. He had no 'things' to catch up on, really; nothing past altering his clothes.

"Sure," Burt said. "You let me know if you ever need me to send someone off again, okay? I know Mercedes didn't mean anything by it, and she'd give you the stars and sky if she could, but... kids, they don't always understand how the world works. Finn, he's been dealing with me all summer. He knows what a big deal this all is. But a lot of your friends probably think everything can go back to normal."

"And they can't," Kurt admitted. "Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I'll see who comes by next; it sounds like they've put together a schedule. Hooray."

He saw Burt talking to Carole when he went downstairs. Burt was gesturing at his shoulders, then the basement door. Carole's eyebrows raised and she made a knowing face. A gesture toward the back door, where Finn was doing yard work, earned a shake of the head: no, Kurt clearly understood, they wouldn't freak Finn out by telling him that new information about the wings.

It'd take his father a little while to process that. Kurt could give him that time before he reminded him that it was okay to hug his son.

  


* * *

He'd thought the worst would come later. He'd expected Rachel to put off their meeting until the very end of the choir, when everyone else would say they'd seen him and she'd have no excuses left. It must be like pulling off a band-aid, Kurt thought. Fast and clean, to get past the pain.

Perhaps it was foolish, but he couldn't bring himself to be anything but sarcastic when she was ushered into his bedroom. It was a shield against what her presence meant. "I suppose it should be a letdown," he said, gesturing at the converted space. "After all, when these come in you're supposed to be headed for a mansion, right?"

Rachel wouldn't even look at him.

"But, on the bright side," he continued, "I get to be 'he' again. So that's nice. It was starting to feel like second grade recess all over again."

She wiped away tears.

"God, this is awkward and painful. And we both knew it would be, but... say something, already."

Of all people for the affliction to strike, Kurt had never expected to see Rachel Berry speechless. She tried to look at him but it was like staring at the sun; she had to turn away and blink hard. Her mouth fumbled around the beginnings to words. Eventually one hand rested on her shoulder. Its fingertips curled around to her back, and then she closed it into a fist and pulled it away.

He knew what she was thinking.

 _"You can argue all you like, Noah," Rachel said archly. She flipped her hair over her shoulders and folded her arms below her breasts. "Your plans remain completely delusional."_

 _"No more 'delusional' than yours," Puck snorted. "Like either of us would ever get one."_

 _"I am destined for Broadway and the Tonys," Rachel said in a huff. "And after that I will pick up my inevitable Grammy, and assuming I see the proper scripts, an Emmy and Oscar. A-list stars own Angels. I am the person in this room destined for A-list."_

 _"You're destined for a list, all right," Santana smirked as she worked on a particularly troublesome nail. "I saw you on one in the bathroom earlier."_

 _Rachel glared at her, but otherwise ignored the girl. "As I was saying," she gritted out, refocusing on Puck, "I will be able to afford one. How would you ever be able to write that check?"_

 _He shrugged. "Okay, maybe I wouldn't be able to. Maybe—big maybe—you will. But," he continued meaningfully, "I'd put one to much better use. Do you have any idea what you could get up to with wings in the equation?" His appreciative noise suggested that he did. Rachel looked annoyed._

 _"I'm sure you're picturing a Victoria's Secret 'angel,'" Kurt said as he picked a miniscule piece of lint off his jacket. "You do realize not all of them are six foot tall Brazilian women with enormous fake breasts."_

 _"I'm not gay," Puck clarified, "but human dudes are human dudes. Angels are, like... an 'it.' And a hole's a hole." Most of the room nodded along with him, though some agreement faded into disgust at the last sentence._

 _"In any case," Rachel said after the wrinkles on her nose smoothed, "I think we can all agree that I will be the first and only one of us to reach that level of success." When Kurt opened his mouth she quickly cut him off to say, "But given how tremendously busy I'll be, and considering that they have specific dietary and activity needs to attend to, well... I wouldn't even be able to commit to walking my own dog. And you can't exactly turn over an Angel to some... Angel-walker with seven of them all on one special leash."_

 _Several people giggled at the image._

 _"So, you wouldn't buy an Angel after all," Kurt smirked, "and it has nothing to do with the fact that you wouldn't be able to pay for one. You just don't want one. Those are some sour grapes, Miss Berry." When she looked at him in challenge, he nodded. Yes: it was on. "Maybe I'll let you see mine, then."_

 _Her eyes narrowed and her resolve to own an Angel returned in one visible sweep of her shoulders. "There's not a chance you'd beat me."_

 _Fashion was about beauty and Angels were about beauty, while Rachel was about being obnoxious. It was simple logic. Kurt opened his mouth to argue as much but Puck decided to once again speak up. He wanted to have some 'Angel chick' fly down onto his dick, though he admitted he didn't know how possible it might be, but the conversation was cut thankfully short by Mr. Schue's appearance._

 _"Hey, guys!" he said brightly. "Am I interrupting anything?"_

 _Finn seemed to break out of contemplating Puck's suggested logistics. "Uh, not really," he lied. "We were just... saying who might own an Angel first?" he added hopefully._

 _Mr. Schue looked amused. "Let's focus on our setlist for now, huh? You're not going to get one without being a big star. First steps first." Chuckling as everyone forced themselves to focus on the here and now, he began passing out music._

Rachel worried her lower lip so hard it looked ready to bleed.

They'd had quite the bet between them. They'd picked out names, they'd chosen songs for when they 'claimed their property.' Puck's description, as crass as it was, was right: the sex of the child who'd lost _its_ name didn't matter, because the world had been taught that they were all equally beautiful and desirable. Kurt never could have explained why a 'she' with breasts was unappealing and an 'it' with breasts was an object of desire, but it was the truth. Rachel thought the same way: if you had a chance to bid on an Angel, you took it, no matter what _it_ looked like. "I'm not sure if I won or not," Kurt said thoughtfully. "Or maybe my dad did." Turning to Rachel, he looked to see if his attempt at humor shielded her as well as it did him. From the broken expression she carried, he supposed not.

"I'm so sorry," she managed before hugging her light jacket around her and bolting for the door. She seemed to leave guilt behind her like a lingering scent in the air, and Kurt wondered if he'd ever see Rachel again.

Like prodding a bruise, Kurt brought up the pop culture websites he'd once worshipped. Socialites and celebrities freely said they were in one camp or another for which kind of Angel they dreamed of owning.

Some Angels bore wings in soft shades of brown, marked with intricate stripes and chevrons like a hawk. Others had the vibrant markings of an oriole or the intense hue of a bluebird. A different market existed for those Angels. The owners choosing them proclaimed their superiority to the 'standard model.' The colors and intricate designs of those tremendous wings were like the complex notes in a fine wine.

Most wanted wings white as a swan's, though. For some, it was all tied up in that religious iconography that Kurt really didn't want to consider. Others rhapsodized about how the light gleamed off white feathers like nothing else. Rachel had fantasized about wings red like a cardinal's. When Kurt had pictured himself as a huge star, worshipped by millions and with the money to match, his marker of success had perfect white wings on its back. (Its, he repeated to himself. He had used that word before. He had made a list of names from which to choose.)

After all, white wings would go with any outfit he wore.

Be careful what you wish for, he thought darkly, and closed his browser.

  


* * *

"Here," Kurt said as he handed over several trash bags to Finn and Carole. "I think that's everything."

She didn't take him at his word and started digging through the clothes he'd sorted for Goodwill. "Oh, Kurt, you can't get rid of this!" she insisted as her hand landed on a sweater. "It's so beautiful. And soft," she added as she checked the label and verified that it was indeed an indulgence in cashmere.

"Maybe you could wear it?" he asked dubiously. It was possible; it wasn't skintight on him and might have room to fit her chest. He didn't mind if Carole took that sweater, but he hoped it didn't mean they were setting themselves up for an analysis of everything in the bags.

Apparently, they were. Soon she was settled on the couch, knitwear scattered around her like she was building a nest. "No," she insisted as she held up another of her favorites. "It exactly matches your eyes, you can't get rid of this."

"If I cut holes in it, pretty soon I won't have anything left but a pile of yarn the exact color of my eyes," Kurt retorted, and with a sigh she moved it into her 'try on' pile.

"You have a black leather jacket?" Finn asked with amusement.

For an answer, Kurt held his hand above his head like they'd done long ago in their decongestant-fueled mashup. Finn laughed when he processed the reference and then sighed and set the coat back in the donation stack. "Guess we won't be looking for performance outfits with holes in the back, huh?"

At least Finn accepted that he wouldn't be in that choir room. "Always a silver lining," Kurt agreed as he tried to move everything back into the bags. He didn't want to see all the belongings that he could no longer wear. "I can't imagine many stores sell shirts with a pair of wingholes in them. You'd really limit your selection, and it's not like Mr. Schuester has turned us into fashion plates with every show choir opportunity available to him. And, well, if I'm going to spend the time to alter something myself, I'll do it properly. I wouldn't want to do it for something I'd only wear once."

"That all sounds very logical," Carole said in a voice that was clearly humoring him.

"Hey, Mom?" Finn asked as he finished shoving clothes back into bags. It hurt Kurt's heart to see those clothes so callously mistreated, but they weren't _his_ any more, not really. "Will you finish tying these up? I've gotta ask Kurt something." He gestured with his head toward the back deck, and with a frown Kurt followed him there. "Did Rachel act weird when she came by yesterday?"

"About like I expected," Kurt said neutrally. Once, Rachel said that she would commission a giant, hoop-outlined globe in gold, then gild her Angel from head to toe. It would be a life-sized Emmy. She didn't have an answer when Brittany innocently asked if she would poke holes for the Angel to breathe through. The realization swept her that she _would_ need to, but she clearly hadn't considered everything she was planning.

"Oh," Finn said, wanting more of an explanation. He didn't sound as distraught as Kurt might have expected when he continued, "She broke up with me last night."

Mouth a perfect 'O' of shock, Kurt shook himself out of it and felt guilt wash over him. Now other lives were being ruined, too? "I'm so sorry. I can talk to her, or at least try to, and—"

"Nah. She said she couldn't be around me, since I'd be around you."

The guilt sharpened to a fine point and seemed to draw blood from a thousand tiny wounds.

"Don't worry about it," Finn shrugged. "She went halfway cataclysmic when she heard that you, uh, left." Catatonic, Kurt mentally corrected after a short search of his mental files. Finn meant catatonic. "Me and Mom were basically trying to keep your dad from killing himself all summer. Rachel didn't want to hear anything about it, we got into fights because I needed someone to talk to... I dunno. We kept 'dating' because we had been when everything happened, but we haven't been acting like it. It was like neither of us bothered to end it before yesterday. We weren't mad by now. There just wasn't any point."

"I'm still sorry," Kurt said, trying not to openly wince. Finn must have been the one to explain his disappearance to everyone, since his father broke the news to Carole. What had those conversations been like? Had they cried? Said it was impossible, like he'd sobbed when he saw wings growing years past when they'd ever appeared on anyone else? What did everyone say while he was paralyzed, his body trying and failing to heal away a silver conducting rod as it integrated with his spine?

"I mean, I'll make sure she's okay, because wow, she sounded depressed," Finn clarified. "I'm not a dick. But dating... no."

The nice thing to do would be to ask about Rachel, but he couldn't help changing the topic. His mind was filled with speculation on what people had talked about while he waited to be trained and sold. "What did people say?" Kurt asked. "When you told everyone, what did they say?"

"Um." Finn rubbed the back of his head and stared into the distance. "The girls cried, mostly. Except for Santana. She was busy telling Puck that you were probably going to wind up in Dubai or somewhere, and that he'd get shot if he tried to break you out."

Kurt smiled lopsidedly. "He was going to break me out?"

Finn managed a small grin. "He had most of the guys on board, too. Well, not Matt. Did you know he moved away? Anyway, we were all ready to go Ocean's Eleven on you until Santana pointed out that we'd get killed or wind up in jail."

"And you would have," Kurt allowed. "But it was very sweet that you wanted to make the effort."

"God, _thank you_ for acknowledging how stupid they were being."

Eyes wide, Kurt whipped around to where newcomers were walking around the side of the house. "We knocked," Santana said. "Finn's mom told us you were out here. Do you know she's stealing your clothes?"

He was supposed to be warned that people were coming. He was supposed to be able to prepare himself for the visits. That applied to few people more than Santana Lopez, whom he was completely sure would be among the cruelest voices of his old circle of friends. She barely deserved the word. But then, it would break Brittany's heart to be told she couldn't come by, and he didn't know if it would be possible to say one was allowed and not the other.

"Hi," Brittany said, grinning shyly like a child presented with a favorite character at a theme park.

"Hi, Brittany," Kurt managed. He had to swallow before he continued, "And Santana." Next to him, Finn clearly picked up on the tension but seemed confused as to its origins. Finn hadn't spent months thinking over the possibility that the people Kurt had known in his old life might not see him as a person any more.

"So it's true," Santana marveled, looking him over without making any attempt to hide the blatant survey. "It's not a bad look for you."

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked. Something condemning him to slavery _wasn't a bad look?_

"Pretty fluffy wings and a gold collar? Just picture them on, like, Puck," she snorted. "He's this big macho stud, he'd look like a porn actor in a bad costume." As Finn laughed despite himself at the description, she continued, "But it works on you, I guess."

"Thanks?" Kurt said when it felt like he should offer a response and no serious one came to mind.

"Welcome," she offered as Brittany kept marveling at Kurt's appearance. "And I'm serious, when people see you they're going to freak. In a good way. I bet half the school's gotten off already, thinking that they actually knew an Angel face-to-face."

"Ew," was all he could find to say, especially when he got the distinct impression that—

"I only did when I heard you were back," Santana said with what she actually seemed to intend as a friendly smile. "It was good to hear you were okay, you know? I'm not _heartless_ , get that look off your face."

—That she'd included herself and Brittany in that description. Who else might be using his state as masturbation fodder _right that second?_ People he knew were seriously using his mutation and slavery as a way to pleasure themselves?

"I never did," Finn promised when he saw Kurt's expression. But then he paused, looked up and away in a way that suggested he was accessing memories, and slowly admitted, "Puck might have."

As Kurt rubbed his face and groaned how the topic was not one that they ever needed to discuss, Santana reached forward and shoved his shoulder playfully. "Own it," she insisted. "Everything worked out for the best, and sad, sexless little babydoll you somehow wound up being hot. You could get anyone on the planet. You could get anyone on the planet to write you a _check._ I'm serious, you could be a freaking millionaire. Come on, don't you want people to want you?"

 _I want you, Jophiel._

 _You're so perfect._

 _You'll be mine forever._

"What's with him?" Santana said, and Kurt realized in his dizzy mind that she was asking Finn.

"Stop talking about sex, okay?" he said insistently, trying to hide every time he glanced Kurt's way.

Santana frowned, looked at Kurt, and seemed to reassess the situation. Her humor died more with each breath. "You know," she said slowly, "if you're okay with that."

"It's so pretty."

Dizziness built ever higher, nearly making Kurt fall to his knees under its weight. He stared at Brittany and whispered, "What?"

"You're so pretty, Kurt," she smiled, and then turned to Santana. "Isn't it pretty?"

Santana's frown only deepened. "Brit, that's Kurt."

He tried to hold back his gasps for air, but the effort meant he couldn't fight back the whimpers breaking free in the other direction. He'd _known_ he'd hear that word. He'd prepared for it, just like he'd prepared himself to be abused and raped. He hadn't really been ready for that suffering, though, and so did Brittany's words take him by surprise.

Brittany's brow knitted so deeply that a line formed. "I know it's Kurt, I'm talking to it."

"Brittany," Santana said as she watched Finn steady Kurt with a hand on his arm, "stop talking. Or call him 'he.' Either way."

"But now it's an Angel, and Angels are it." She sounded confused and heartbroken that people were upset at her actions. Santana was glaring at her, Finn occasionally did the same between checks that Kurt was breathing, and Kurt couldn't bring himself to even look at Brittany's face. "That's what everyone says."

"He, God!" Santana said. "This is the same guy you were fooling absolutely _no one_ by dating last year. He was he then, he's he now. _He_ ," she repeated when Brittany tried to stammer out her logic again.

"He," Brittany repeated meekly. It seemed born out of compliance rather than any real shift in her mental state; she was still clearly confused about what Kurt was. "Does that mean everyone else is wrong, though? Because everyone calls Angels it."

"Yeah," Santana said. "I guess this means everyone else is wrong. Hey, uh, we're gonna go and stop pretending like this is a conversation we can be having right now, okay?"

"Good idea," Kurt said weakly. "And good job convincing the guys not to get shot or imprisoned."

"It was a stupid plan," she said for her farewell, and tugged Brittany along after her.

"You're really pretty!" Brittany said as Santana pulled her around the corner of the house and the two girls disappeared from view.

He hadn't cried, Kurt realized as he fumbled to the deck railing and used that to support himself. That was something. Even faced with what felt like the worst kind of betrayal, he hadn't cried.

"It's Brittany," Finn said like it was an explanation for everything. Really, it was. "You know she didn't mean anything by it. Just, you know... we all grow up hearing stuff about, um, people like you, and I guess she didn't rethink anything. I mean, if she knew Burt owns you, she'd probably wouldn't even consider he's your dad and would assume he was like all the other owners and was having se...." Finn trailed off at the horrified expression that earned. "Okay, really sorry for putting that image into your head. And my head."

He needed to sit down, but the deck furniture was too far away. Kurt half-crumpled to the slats below his feet and waited for the world to stop spinning around him.

"She really didn't mean anything by it," Finn promised.

"I know," Kurt finally said. It still hurt. But he knew. He couldn't blame Brittany too much; it would only _really_ hurt if his humanity were to be denied by someone who actually seemed to understand the situation. If there was something one could never accuse Brittany of, it was having an understanding of a situation.

The door slid open. Both turned to see Carole standing there with a bright smile on her face, which faded as she saw the apparent fallout of an aborted conversation. "I was going to ask if you kids wanted anything, but... they left?"

"Didn't go so well," Kurt mumbled.

Carole studied him, and then asked Finn, "Could you go out to the garage? Burt's been putting together a list of the things Kurt's car might need, and maybe you could go get them for him." As Finn gladly handed over the emotional reins to his mother, Carole settled down next to Kurt on the deck and sighed. "I'm sorry," she said as the door closed. "I should have asked if you were ready to see them, but I knew those two were at Nationals with you and everything."

He liked Carole, he did. He could picture holidays together stretching into white-haired years. And, Kurt had to admit, he really wasn't in a position to turn down anyone who saw him like he used to be, and who was still willing to offer whatever comfort he needed. "She called me it."

"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and squeezed. "The blonde one? You know she's not very bright."

"I know."

"But it still hurts, I know, I know." Her hand lifted from his shoulder to stroke his hair, like she'd probably done a lot with Finn. Burt seldom tried such a thing, as Kurt usually complained about having to restyle his hair, but at that moment he preferred the physical comfort.

It did feel good, he thought as he rested his head on her shoulder. He paused. "Aren't you hot?"

She was in one of his cashmere sweaters and it was midmorning in August. "Yes I am," Carole admitted. "But I'll cool off when I get back into the air conditioning. Sometimes we just need someone to play with our hair."

It was less like 'playing' and more like a 'scalp massage' in short order, and Kurt went nearly boneless against her. Yes, he thought distantly. He liked Carole. Carole was good. "Thanks," he finally said.

"I can keep going, we don't have to be finished."

"No, for touching me at all." He tilted his head enough to meet her eyes. "I saw Dad telling you, after he jerked away from me. I know he's scared to touch me."

Hand still moving against his hair, Carole sighed. "Oh, you know your father loves you more than anything. Give him a little bit, he'll realize he's worried over nothing. It's not like you turn into some raving sex maniac from an accidental elbow, right?"

He actually giggled at the phrase; it sounded so _wrong_ coming from a parent. "No. I do not turn into a... raving sex maniac. And speaking of things my dad would never do, using that phrase has to be one of them."

"I can be a bit wilder than your dad," she confided. He truly hoped she meant in a general sense; he really didn't want to hear anything about their sex life. "Don't worry, Kurt. Your friends, the ones that matter, will come around. And you've got us, even if we're still figuring out some things here and there. Everything will work out just fine."

"Thanks, Carole." He rested against her shoulder until he finally couldn't help but say, "You have _got_ to get inside, you're sweating on cashmere."

Laughing, she scooted away and stood. "Yes, sir."

He found his own footing that would have been impossible before that conversation, and Kurt smiled at her when they were both standing. "I'm really glad everything worked out. I know you were getting pretty upset with him when I was hiding, and he kept you away."

"I forgave him when I heard why. How could I not?" Turning, Carole moved to walk inside, but admitted when she wasn't facing him, "The only time I stopped crying was when I was around him, and I had to be strong. This shouldn't have happened. None of it. Okay, sweetie. Come inside when you're ready. We can go over the groceries again and figure out what I can make that you actually like."

He'd have to make her a Mother's Day card next May, Kurt thought as she vanished into the cool interior air with an audible sigh of relief. No matter what state she and his father were in when that day hit, she'd earned a beautiful card and a truckload of flowers with that speech.

The neighbor's mastiff nosed at the fence. "Go away," Kurt told him and heard a whimper in reply. He wanted that dog to lunge at him again and he did not want _anyone_ at William McKinley to use him in their fantasies. "Go _away_ ," he repeated when a wet black nose pushed insistently against the fence.

Instead, that raging Cujo cousin scratched at the slats like he was hoping to be let in a house during a storm.

"Growl at me, you stupid dog," Kurt muttered.

When the brute only kept whimpering hopefully, Kurt stalked inside and slammed the door shut behind him. The world contained people who used him as a prop in some twisted fantasy, friends who called him 'it' and said he should whore himself out to the highest bidder, and a dog who was only friendly because he no longer recognized the boy he'd once threatened. But it also held really, _really_ good parents. He supposed that balanced out an awful lot.

  


* * *

Finn was not allowed to make the run for car parts, Burt decided. Finn didn't know enough to ask the guys at the garage.

"I don't _have_ to go," he reminded Kurt.

"It's fine," Kurt smiled. He was actually looking forward to bending over that engine and making it purr. His beloved clothes were sitting by the door, ready to give away, he'd been called 'it,' and he'd had to keep telling Carole that he really didn't want anything past raw produce, whole grains, and maybe honey or frozen juice for dessert. As much as she told him it sounded healthy and perfectly fine, he felt ridiculous as he kept shaking his head at each newly presented option. "I shouldn't have to _eat_ like a bird," he'd muttered, and Carole'd just laughed and said that it wasn't any stranger than diets she heard about from Hollywood. After all that turmoil in his life, tuning up an engine would feel productive and normal.

"I'll grab a dolly," Burt said, snapping his fingers, "so you can also get... under... sorry," he sighed.

No more looking at the undercarriage, not unless they installed a lift in their home garage. This was pointless, really; he couldn't drive either physically or legally. Still, the reminder was unpleasant. "Grab one anyway. You could teach Finn," Kurt suggested. "If he's going to be around here, he should know how to change his own oil."

Burt caught Finn's eye, looked pleased, and nodded. Finn elbowed Kurt in the side and said he'd have to thank him for that new chore later.

"Finn, you'll stay around here, right?" Carole asked as she verified with Burt that he wouldn't be gone very long; he just had to get the parts and then work out some schedules with his employees to set them up for a long leave of absence. They'd been more than willing to cover for him, but they needed a little more structure if his absence would drag on.

"Huh? Yeah, sure," Finn said.

"Because I think the Goodwill closes early to do inventory, and so I want to run these over there." She looked at Burt, who'd gone pale at the suggestion. "Finn'll be here, Burt," she said. "It'll be fine."

Right, Kurt thought; couldn't leave him alone, not yet. He didn't particularly want to be alone and doubted he would for some time, so their worry suited him just fine. And, after that surprise conversation on the deck, he really didn't mind being cooped safely up inside the house.

After seemingly endless double-checking on maps both paper and electronic, Burt was convinced that his garage was just over three-quarters of a mile away from the house. "It's why we picked this place," he explained as he collected a few pieces of mail to drop on his way out. "Close to work."

"Keep your phone on while you're driving," Kurt said. "This first time, until we know the maps are right... just keep it on. And if you hear me scream, turn around," he finished weakly, knowing his father would pale at the specter of that possibility. He did. "Okay, I'm going to go downstairs and start planning alterations. It'll be fine, Dad. Just keep your phone on and it'll be fine."

"Totally fine," Finn promised him. "I'm... gonna be here, just, you know, being here."

Assuring Finn that it was _very_ helpful, Kurt headed downstairs. He was surprised to hear heavy footsteps following him soon after.

"Hey," Burt said with a smile. "I realized that I could just leave this with you."

Kurt's stomach lurched as the controller was placed in his hands. A good idea in theory, it still unsettled him. That outline of some generic male Angel had been used to target parts of his body for torture. "Do you think it'd work?"

"You can't get too far away from it, right? It's not me, it's that little box." Burt looked downright proud of himself. "If this works... you don't need to be tied down at all."

"That'd be nice," Kurt said, although part of him quaked in fear over what would happen as soon as he was out of sight of his father. People would pay for him; if some hired goons were able to get both him and the controller in one grab, would they be able to straighten things out before the ownership controls were somehow hacked?

That was his life, now, Kurt realized. He would forever have to look over his shoulder. A wing would be in the way if he did, he realized with dark humor; how appropriate.

"Promise me you'll stay around here, though? Even though Finn's here?" Burt asked. His good mood ebbed, replaced with nervousness. "Keep everything locked?"

"I will, Dad." He didn't want to go _anywhere._ Not yet.

"Okay. I'll call now and then, you got it?" Burt asked seriously. "Make sure you answer. I catch you in the bathroom or something—"

"Dad," Kurt protested.

Burt waved it off. "Then you call me back within a minute or two. I'll be waiting, and if I don't get that call then I'm calling the cops and heading home. I know, this isn't a lot of freedom, but... but just let me get used to letting you out of my sight, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt agreed, as Burt said he'd practice that whole 'out of sight' thing for as long as he could and walked up the stairs. He worried at the inside of his cheek as he stared at the controller, so hard that he tasted a splash of something hot and sweet across his tongue. That was his blood, he realized with surprise.

The controller started beeping.

Kurt instinctively flinched, but no pain came. Why was it beeping?

The outline of his body intrigued him like a scab: he knew it would hurt, but some foolish part of him wanted to turn the power down to minimum and try touching part of that figure. Just to see. Barely able to look as he did, he risked tapping on one foot. Nothing happened; it must be keyed only to his father. That was a relief, he supposed.

The beeping increased in volume. It was like a smoke detector losing its batteries.

Frowning, Kurt turned it over to look for any battery compartment, but of course there wasn't one. The power sources for the controllers were tiny, proprietary, and guaranteed to last a millennium. Kurt tried to tell himself that the last bit was simply marketing fluff; it wasn't literal. It _couldn't_ be literal.

Footsteps thudded across the floor above his head; the beeping quieted. The front door opened; it increased. The door closed, a car started, and... Kurt lunged for his phone as the controller began screaming at him. "Dad!" he shouted. "You have to come back in the house."

Soon he was handing the small box to his sighing, resigned father. "Handy," Kurt said as what had to be a proximity detector for the owner remained happily silent. "They made it so you're sure never to lose it."

"It was loud?" Burt asked, clearly hoping for something soft enough that Kurt could ignore in the pursuit of an independent life.

"I think I would have gone deaf by the time you got to work," Kurt said. "It's all right, Dad. This is what I expected. And hey," he continued, determined not to let himself fall into weakness around the man who wouldn't be able to take it. "You know where I am and you know I won't talk back! Every parent's dream, right?"

"Believe me," Burt said emphatically as he tucked the controller securely into his front pocket and buttoned the flap, "there's nothing about this I want."

That was sweet. It did nothing to change the fact that until laws changed on some day in an unthinkable future, that controller was a mile-long leash. "If you run any errands afterward, be sure they're in the direction of the house." Kurt shrugged when Burt winced at the realization that an accidental run to the grocery store might leave Kurt in agony. "We might as well get used to this."

After all, they had a while.

  


* * *

It was a beautiful day, Kurt saw through the locked living room window some time later. The clouds overhead looked near enough to touch. Probably not, Kurt thought as he squinted up into the bright dome of blue and white. That proximity was likely a trick of the eyes, and he had no desire to feel the aftereffects of a fall from a mile up if he overshot himself. Would someone have to put his body together like a broken doll before it could heal, and would he remain aware in the meantime? Or would some parts be disposable, flitting away into a streak of gold, while replacements regenerated like his wings?

What a morbidly fascinating question, Kurt thought.

What would happen? His eyes widened as he realized one possible question: what would happen were he to be _decapitated?_ If it would kill him, that'd be one thing, but he couldn't depend on that. He was faced with the spine-itching image of either a new head or body glimmering its way into existence. What would happen if the cut happened on the wrong side of his collar, and he regenerated into a body that was bare-necked and ripe for recapture?

"Right," he told himself shakily. "Don't get decapitated."

It was a good life motto in general, he supposed. But he really did want to know what happened when he lost a body part. Knowing that his wings had been cut off, but then reappeared... had they grown back, starting as specks, or had they simply returned to his body? "Only one way to find out," he supposed, and headed for the kitchen.

He'd healed in moments from a broken neck and he'd watched his mutilated face knit back together. This would hurt, but it would be fine. And he had to know. He'd just been locked out of working on a big part of his car. He couldn't step out the front door without being stared at, and a back yard sanctuary had crumbled with a painful conversation. He was giving up his belongings, his freedom, and his future. The least he could do was figure out the limits of his body. No university had ever been able to afford the cost for a _specimen_ , and so he was on his own.

He had to know. He at least had enough control in his life to understand his own body.

Wincing, he balled his left fist except for the pinky, raised a meat cleaver high, and brought it down neatly between the knuckles.

Through his blinding pain, it took Kurt a second to realize that the screams weren't his.

 _"What are you doing?"_ Finn demanded, running over in a panic. "Oh my God!"

"Stop," Kurt said in thin, reedy tones as he batted him away. "No, don't bring it near me," he ordered when Finn tried to return his severed finger to his hand in the sloppy logic of panic. Smiling, he watched the bloody stump simply vanish into a swirl of gold as Finn held it and an outline of the full finger appear on his hand. Cut something completely off, he thought as he rubbed his brand new pinky and felt the pain ease, and it simply reappeared. That was interesting.

"What the hell was that?" Finn demanded. He was holding his arms away from his body like the vanished fingertip would return from the ether to attack him. "I just watched you cut off your hand!"

"One finger," Kurt corrected. "I heal," he explained when Finn clearly wanted some clearer picture of what had just happened before him. "I wanted to see the process, since I've never been in a position to witness just how it plays out."

"You cut off your hand. One finger. Whatever!"

"Don't tell Dad," Kurt said lightly as he inspected the nail on that new pinky. It was identical to what he'd lost. "Oh, Finn, calm down. Look, I'm fine."

"And why does your blood glow? It's weird and gold!" Finn drew back. "Open your mouth."

"What?" Kurt asked, and Finn took the opportunity to duck down and peer at his tongue.

"Your spit doesn't glow," Finn said thoughtfully. He blushed. "Does, uh. Your. You know."

"Not that I'm aware of," Kurt managed, tilting his hips away.

"Okay. Um. Please don't cut your hand off again, it looked like it really hurt." Finn stabbed his hand into the space between them. "And I just watched you grow a new finger. Can we please discuss how I just saw that?"

"I'm not human," Kurt sighed. "I know I keep saying I want to be treated as one, but I have this blood that heals me, I can barely force down an apple or two a day... that dog that's been trying to rip me apart for years seems like he wants to be my best friend. My body, it... feels things, and I won't get older, and I'm just _different._ " He shrugged. "Sorry if that freaks you out."

"None of that freaks me out," Finn promised. "You cutting off your finger in front of me, that freaks me out."

"But seriously, don't tell Dad and Carole," Kurt said, and Finn groaned like he'd been asked to give up Christmas.

"You need to stop asking me to do that!" Finn whined.

"Finn!" Kurt said insistently. "This is one tiny piece of control I have left, so let me keep it. And turn on the burner."

Finn whimpered, but did as requested. "You're not an it," he said meaningfully as he watched Kurt's hand inch toward the red-hot metal. "But you're—"

A high, slippery noise of pain tumbled out of Kurt as he felt his flesh sear, and he quickly jerked back his hand. So that was what his back had looked like when the cauterization scars faded, he thought with interest. He was learning all sorts of things.

"But you're really not human," Finn said with mingled apology and awe.

Kurt turned his hand back and forth in front of his face and watched the burns heal to nothing. "That's certainly been today's lesson."


	3. Chapter 3

William McKinley High School began its new school year. Kurt didn't.

He would forever be on the outside of what happened within its walls. Even if there were some miraculous new laws to grant him personhood, and even if the place became some unexpected bastion of tolerance after that, it was a public high school. The rooms were full and the hallways crowded. He couldn't control himself when touched and in those close quarters touch was all but inevitable.

He would never graduate high school. He would continue studying what interested him, but he couldn't get a GED, let alone a university diploma. There would be no auditions, either. He was never standing on a stage unless that stage was for a freakshow.

That was the world and its rules were for people. He wouldn't convince others that he was one of them.

He'd always done well in English classes. Some of his classmates loathed their creative writing assignments but he'd found them entertaining, far more so than dissecting earthworms or learning about covalent bonds. The first hours of the day would be spent reading; Kurt refused to stall out at a tenth grade education. He'd spend the rest of his productive time writing. Might as well hone his skills, he thought; it was the only career he saw before him. Authors could use pseudonyms and their faces could remain forever hidden. In stories, he could go anywhere.

In stories, he didn't have to be locked inside a suburban house, loathe even to step outside because of the comments from neighbors who didn't mean any harm as they pointed and marveled. He didn't have to hear the curious whines of the dog in the next yard over.

Mercedes came over on the first day of school and told him _everything_. She described her classes, showed him her textbooks, and pulled out an entire stack of fashion and pop culture magazines. For the next hour they rummaged through them and cut out the pictures that would plaster her locker door. "Oh my God," Kurt said as he turned a page and stared. "What did Emma Watson do to her hair?"

Leaning over, Mercedes giggled as he stared at the woman's new pixie cut. "Why don't you keep these? You've got a _lot_ of catching up to do."

"Apparently." He flopped sideways on the couch and sighed. He'd returned home close enough to the school year that it started before he reconnected with everyone. On top of that, he suspected Santana had told everyone to give him a little alone time before the rest of the crowd swept back in. Mercedes had apparently been the one to break that embargo, and she'd blessedly stopped telling him to just _try harder_ , but it was still disheartening to know that they were all rolling along again with their normal lives while he was stuck in the house.

"Can I?" Mercedes asked as her hand glided forward toward his back. She seemed genuinely startled when Kurt bolted back up and to the far side of the couch.

"Don't," he gulped. Maybe he shouldn't have thrown himself away from his best friend like that, as she looked hurt at the way he'd lunged in the other direction. She'd just... her hands were nearly on him before her words came out, and he panicked. She hadn't asked permission, not really. Not when it mattered.

"Okay," she said carefully. "Um. Let's see... with Matt gone, and you not around, we're down to ten in Glee."

"And you need at least twelve," he said, grateful for the new topic.

"Right. So some of us talked about it and we realized we could put on a show to get people's attention." Mercedes grinned. "Think you could help us find outfits?"

Kurt didn't know whether to feel sad that he wouldn't be able to participate or happy that he could still be involved in some minor way. "Absolutely," he promised.

Carefully, like navigating a sidewalk in winter, Mercedes said, "We were hoping to get people fired up about the chance to go with us to Nationals this year, if we make it there. It's in New York."

"Oh," Kurt murmured. "Sounds fun."

"You could come," she said hopefully. "I know you have to be registered to perform with a school choir, but you could be backstage, and watch from the audience, and... why are you shaking your head?"

If the halls of McKinley would be a minefield of embarrassment for touching, they'd be nothing compared to one of the largest cities on earth. A less shame-inducing explanation presented itself as well, and Kurt decided to go with that. "My dad's taken a ton of time off work by now. He's going to have to work for a year straight, probably."

Her expression was blank and uncomprehending.

"I can't get more than a mile away from him," he said, tapping the collar. "Or I really, _really_ regret it."

"Why?" she asked, clearly finding his words so nonsensical that they were actually funny. "You can't get more than a mile from your dad _ever?_ "

"Don't ask me, I didn't program in the safeguard," he sighed. "I can't get outside an allowed range from my owner, and a mile's the maximum. I step one inch past that and...." He shivered. "It hurts. It really hurts."

Her lips mouthed 'owner' and she seemed ready to shiver as well, but then Mercedes studied him and winced. "Speaking from experience?" When he nodded, she patted his hand and said she was sorry he'd ever had to go through that. "The wings," she explained when he asked if he really looked that traumatized. "They're all ruffly, like a cat when it gets mad."

"Oh," he drawled. "Great." Something else that he couldn't control. That was just fantastic. Glancing over his shoulder, he scowled at the ruffled feathers and unsuccessfully willed them to lie flat. The failure and subsequent irritation only made them stand up more.

Her fingers danced across her stack of magazine cutouts, shuffling them aimlessly. "People asked about you," she said quietly. "I wanted to tell you, and if you're all... ruffled-upset right now, I might as well get it over with."

"People?"

"Everyone. Like, wanting pictures, asking where you went, how much you s—sold for, whether you wanted to _date_ anyone." Her nose wrinkled. "I'm really sorry, but you need to know this. Your dad should put in a security system or something, because some people were acting super gross and interested, if you know what I mean."

"Some people? Which people?" Not that he wanted to get near anyone at that school who'd consider him like that, as some exotic item of interest who was only worthy inside a collar.

"Do you really want to know, to put faces to it?" she asked, and sighed when he nodded. "Okay, a big chunk of all the jocks and the Cheerios. I guess they basically figure they're the elite of the school, and that's who gets... you know. You."

"Ugh."

"Totally," she nodded. "From the way they're talking, it's like knowing you beforehand gives them some kind of _claim_ on you. It's really gross."

Ah, yes. The people who'd thought they had every right to abuse and mock him since childhood now thought they had the right to everything associated with the wings. It was sadly unsurprising; they'd never treated his body like something to which he had sole claim.

The sound of the door slamming overhead drew his attention. As the school year dawned, Finn had promised to always swing by after football practice whether or not he and his mother were staying there that night. An unspoken agreement had formed among the quartet: Finn and Carole would run errands without complaint, because they didn't have to check the distance on every destination.

"Hey," he said, swallowing. "This has been fun, but would you mind taking off? I should go tell this to my dad."

"Sure," she sighed, gathering her cutouts and then tapping the magazines into a neat stack on his desk. "Sorry. But you needed to know."

"I did, thanks."

When that boy treated him like a science experiment and cut him to see if he'd heal, it would have been an immediate conviction if Blaine had gone to the police. It was a hefty minimum sentence, but nothing like the minimum for 'unauthorized sexual contact.' That was the term they'd settled on for sexually assaulting an Angel. It couldn't be a matter of _them_ giving consent, of course, and so the violation came from participating in any intercourse which the owner hadn't allowed. The minimum, bumped ever-higher when rich owners had taken to the courts with full legal teams and no shortage of outrage, was fifty years. Kurt really didn't think anyone would chance that.

The risk of being wrong was just too great, though. "Dad," Kurt sighed as he walked up the stairs.

"Hey, did you and Mercedes have fun?" Burt asked, smiling. He'd been thrilled when he'd heard that she wanted to swing by for the same kind of frivolous fun they'd developed into an art form over their previous year together. But that smile soon died as he watched Mercedes wave good-bye and make her exit, and when he took in the serious expression on Kurt's face. "What's up?"

"She thinks we need a security system," Kurt said bluntly. "She heard some... things from people at school."

Burt's eyebrows dipped dangerously low. He looked ready to hit someone as soon as he was presented with a target. "Someone wants to hurt you?"

"Not hurt."

It was the only thing worse to say, and Burt went sickly pale when he processed the meaning. "Finn?" he croaked. "Hey, would you go hit the electronics stores and see what they've got? Ask someone to show you the security gear. Bring back brochures or make notes or something, and I'll call the companies with their own systems."

"Sure," Finn said with obvious confusion. He reshouldered his bag, shot Kurt a blank stare and a shrug, and then obligingly made his exit.

"It's just new," Burt finally said when they'd sat in painful silence for far too long. "You shouldn't have to deal with this, but it's new and it's all anyone can think about. It'll pass."

He kind of doubted that. If Kurt couldn't be himself again, then he suspected the most he could hope for was a fresh start with people who wouldn't constantly judge him against what he'd once been and mark how far he'd fallen with every weighty glance. It would be oddly comforting to be viewed only as an Angel, with an eccentric owner who called him by his real name and let him pursue his own interests, rather than as a once-human with a destroyed future and strange body. But their house was in Lima. His father's garage was in Lima, as was his fiancée's house and family.

The security system would help. And maybe his dad was right, and things simply needed to pass.

"You think things really just need some time?" Kurt asked hopefully after silence once again hung between them.

"Sure they do," Burt promised with no conviction in his voice.

Change was the only constant, went the phrase. It had always been one of those jumbles of words that Kurt had never really internalized. (He still had no idea how someone was supposed to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.) He understood it now, as he felt unchanging and frozen with a storm of change swirling around him. The phrase made sense.

And it sucked.

* * *

"So what happens if I enter the wrong code?" Finn asked as he studied the sheet given to them after the installation some days later. The ADT worker had left, and Kurt had come out of seclusion just in time for Finn's daily arrival. Burt had promptly put instruction sheets in both their hands and told them to read up, because he wanted to start using that security system ASAP. "Will it attack me or something?"

Deciding that Finn might actually find that exciting, Kurt said, "Yes, Finn. If you use the wrong code then lasers will blow your legs off."

"Cool," he breathed. "Better be careful."

Kurt smiled. He knew it. But Finn's smile faded, and with it his curiosity grew. "What's wrong? School?"

"Rachel is just... she's not Rachel any more." Finn shook his head. "She says she doesn't want to be a star. This new girl showed up. She's really good; Tina heard her singing by her locker. And she's even smaller than Rachel, which I didn't know was possible. Rachel just stepped back and let her be the new lead."

"It's me," Kurt said as he looked through the screen lining their back deck. After hearing about the unfortunate conversation on the deck, Burt had put up that screen not to fend off mosquitoes, but nosy visitors. He wasn't so obvious within it. "No, I don't mean I'm that new girl," he said with a smile when Finn's confusion became obvious.

"I at least got that much," Finn said dryly.

He presented his speculation like the truth. "Rachel wanted to own an Angel. If she could afford one then she would know she'd truly made it, just like those stars at the Oscars." Nicole Kidman was the first; her dress that year had been wrapped in countless embroidered feathers. 'Angel seating' soon became a regular, if rare thing. (A debate churned every year about whether it was an insult to block someone's view behind wings or a gift to let them sit so near.) When George Clooney brought his onstage with him to accept his _Syriana_ statue the press immediately declared it the most memorable Oscars speech ever.

Kurt sighed, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. "I wanted one, too. I'd know I'd made it big. I called them 'it.' I didn't ever think about where they came from. I guess this is what I deserve," he finished more quietly.

"Don't say that," Finn immediately said. "We _all_ did. Everyone on the planet wants one, does that mean everyone should grow a set of wings?"

That imagined world made Kurt tear up before he even knew why he was doing so, and he had to search for an explanation when Finn asked him what was wrong. "If that happened then everyone would be okay," Kurt finally realized. He wiped at his eyes. "We'd all be 'he' and 'she' again. No more 'it.'" A few deep breaths centered him. "And besides, not everyone thinks that. A few people saw this all for what it was. We should have listened."

"Tina," Finn said with guilt. She'd ranted at them about how it was all some big act so people wouldn't feel shame over what they were doing, but everyone ignored her. It was a radical position, one that told people they shouldn't be allowed their trophies for success.

"Now Rachel has realized that Tina was right all along," Kurt theorized. "I know I certainly have. And Rachel, if she pursues a life of stardom, will be trying to claw her way into the same crowd that makes little coordinated outfits for their _pets_ at the Grammys."

Madonna actually brought hers on a leash. It was customized each year to match their outfits' palette. Occasionally she brought a riding crop and had no hesitation about using it.

There was a lot of music Kurt couldn't bring himself to listen to, not any more.

"So no," he finally finished, putting his hand back to slide one long feather across its palm. "I don't think Rachel wants to be a star any more. Her view of success had her as a slaveowner. She'd be in a crowd of others who still abuse and rape _people_ for fun. That's our world. That's the world we idolized."

"I guess this changed a lot of things," Finn admitted. He tried to fight back his question, but it had clearly been bubbling for a long time. "What do they... you know. Feel like?" When Kurt stammered uselessly he asked if he'd done something wrong, and seemed genuinely worried about pushing him too far. Everyone was walking on eggshells around Kurt. Some day he'd tire of it, but for now he enjoyed people really caring about what he thought and wanted.

"What do you mean?" Kurt decided to clarify.

"Just... is it like... having another set of arms? How big do they get? Is it hard to, you know, wiggle them?" Finn blushed. "I'm really sorry. I just... you don't ever see them up close."

With a long exhalation, Kurt relaxed. That was all he meant, then: what it felt like to have them, not to be _touched._ Trying to force away all the cultural baggage that came along with his new body, he considered the best way to answer. That wound up being standing, walking inside and to a far side of the private basement, and facing the wall. Slowly, like stretching his muscles before a run, one wing unfurled to its full length behind him. The other followed after a deliberate delay to show his control over the pair.

"Wow," was all Finn could say. He stood and walked around Kurt, staring openly, but it didn't have any of the objectification that had been inherent to an owner inspecting his property. Though Kurt blushed under his gaze, it was no worse than he'd always done when someone seemed even vaguely aware of his body. After several circuits he finally stopped to marvel, "That's so cool."

Kurt blinked at him, unable to find any response past that.

"Oh," Finn said, seeming to realize he'd said something wrong. "I don't mean it's cool that you got them. It sucks that you got them. But if you have to have them, and you ignore everything else... they're _so_ cool."

It felt peculiar and pointless to have them open in a basement, like sunbathing at night, and Kurt folded back in on himself. He barely knew how to react to that. He'd thought them beautiful on others but on him they were marks of suffering. Now that the suffering was largely past, was it possible that he could find that old beauty? "Do you really think so?" he finally asked.

"Yeah." Finn seemed relieved that Kurt had accepted his statement in good spirits, and willing to push it further. "Okay. This is going to sound really stupid, and promise me you won't tell anyone I asked." At Kurt's wary promise he continued, "I know the answer's gotta be no. But birds can fly, and birds have wings, so—" His jaw dropped when Kurt nodded, a shy smile cresting his lips. "No way!" he said with delight. "That's so cool," he repeated. Even in the dim light his eyes seemed to sparkle.

They were beautiful, Kurt remembered. And in the seconds before his death he'd actually felt free.

Ignoring everything else, it was kind of cool.

"Can I ask something else?" Finn ventured. When Kurt nodded, he approached the question several ways before settling on, "What do they feel like?" Kurt frowned at him in confusion, thinking he'd already answered that to Finn's apparent satisfaction, and the other boy clarified, "The rumors say they, you know... they feel good."

The blush returned. Oh. So he did want to know that, after all, and their parents had never shared the news. "Yes, Finn," Kurt said when he repeated the question, and felt like he absolutely wanted to drop through the floor. "They feel good. So don't touch them."

"Okay," Finn agreed. "But how do they feel good? You don't have to answer if you don't wanna, but I'm just... I'm curious."

Finn Hudson was actually saying these words? He was actually trying to hold this conversation? Kurt's mind reeled. For all he knew Finn thought he'd just been admiring some sort of oversized, feathered sexual organs and yet he was barely blushing.

This was odd, Kurt thought, and he knew he could have used far stronger language than that. "It's like an... erogenous zone," he admitted even as he hated to say those words to that face. Finn's obvious ignorance nearly made him groan, and he couldn't help it when the boy outright asked him for clarification. "A place that makes you feel good when it's touched, all right?"

Finn looked down his body, frowning thoughtfully.

"Not just _there_ ," Kurt said quickly. "I'm sure you have somewhere that... we can seriously stop having this conversation at any time." But Finn seemed curious and nothing else, and so feeling mortified by that point, Kurt continued, "Is there somewhere on your body—other than, you know, down there—that makes you feel, well." He bit at his lip but Finn still had that hopeful, expectant look. "Somewhere that turns you on?" he finished in a rush.

"I don't know," Finn said. "I just go straight for... you know."

"All right," Kurt said, determined to take the topic to its natural end for as long as Finn's bewildering calm lasted. "Some people like having their feet played with." Blaine had forced him to do so. "Other people are very sensitive, oh... along their necks, or just behind their ears... Finn, no, it's like trying to tickle yourself," he laughed when Finn poked at that last spot and seemed disappointed. "You can't surprise your nerves when you know your hand's coming." It was a little sad that he knew more about this than the boy who'd actually had consensual relationships, but he'd read and dreamed. He'd been forced to learn how at least one boy reacted.

"Will you try?" Finn asked suddenly.

A thin hiss of air sucked in between Kurt's teeth. "What?" he asked.

Finn tilted his head to one side, stretching the skin opposite. "Will you see if it feels good to me?"

Gawking like a fool, Kurt looked around the room for the laughing spectators that sure must be in waiting. "Finn, you know this is to see what makes you feel... _good_ , right?"

"Right. I want to see." One foot tapped an impatient cadence on the floor. "Come on, dude. I just want to see."

Gathering his strength like he seldom had in his life, Kurt got up on his toes, leaned in, and blew lightly on the smooth skin behind Finn's ear. He didn't risk touching him even with his hands; his mouth was out of the question.

It still sent Finn rocking in a full-body shiver, smiling with surprise and delight. "Yeah, I think that's one of my places."

"Okay," Kurt agreed weakly. "Good to know, I suppose?"

"Thanks," Finn said with a grin, and took the stairs at a run. He and Carole were back at their place that night and she was calling him up for a security system tutorial, so they wouldn't be there for hours yet. Kurt couldn't imagine that he'd share what he'd just done, or that Finn would even be able to explain it if he tried.

He knew that he certainly had no idea what had just happened between them.

* * *

"Hey," Santana purred as she straddled Kurt. "So you're cool with this, right?"

"Santana," he asked uncertainly, "what's going on?" Brittany's hands tugged at his collar, yanking somewhere under his skin, but he couldn't follow her. "Stop," he said. "I can't move, Santana's on me."

"We didn't plan this very well," Brittany pouted.

Santana shrugged, gestured for her to prop Kurt up, and then leaned forward to kiss him.

 _Wait_ , he thought frantically as her lips met his. _Weren't your clothes on a second ago?_ Brittany started stroking feathers, and as Kurt moaned into Santana's mouth he realized that he could feel the girl's newly-bare flesh hot against his own. When had he taken _his_ clothes off?

He was significantly larger than either of the girls. It should be simple to throw them off. But they suddenly both had a controller in their hands, and instead of pain they brought paralysis. He simply couldn't fight back as they stroked him to arousal, talking all the while about how he should just go along with it and he'd be totally popular. Everyone wanted him. It was the best thing he could hope for.

"Is it ready?" asked a third voice, and Kurt just managed to move his head far enough to the side to see Quinn standing there. Stark naked except for black leather thigh boots, and completely hairless below her eyebrows, she snapped a belt between her hands and promised to see how hard it would be to mark that healing skin.

He whimpered, wondering why it was so hard to think and fight back. Quinn either stepped onto a bed or it appeared under her. The one from the aborted party at Blaine's, Kurt realized. The one set up so everyone could watch. As soon as he realized that everyone _was_ there: his friends, the football team, the Cheerios complete with Sue Sylvester, and even Burt and Carole. All had empty scorecards in their hands and were chatting amicably, like they were about to see a show.

"Do you need a condom or something?" Santana asked Quinn, frowning.

"If you could get pregnant from an Angel," she retorted like Santana was the stupidest person in the world, "then an awful lot of people would have by now." Then she looked down at her abruptly swollen torso, as large as it had ever been the year before. "Oh," Quinn said in mild surprise. "Well, haul it up. I might as well earn this."

Kurt jerked awake, breathing hard. Instinctively patting the bed to make sure he was alone, he dropped back to the pillow with a sigh. "Oh, come on," he murmured against the fabric as he waited for his heart rate to fall. "I have to worry about dreams with girls now, too?" If only Santana hadn't shared her fantasizing. If only Mercedes hadn't mentioned the attention he was getting.

He couldn't fall back asleep. Knowing he had to see, Kurt climbed out of bed, ascended the stairs, and walked to the newly installed security display near the front door. ARMED, it informed him on the dim glow of its backlit screen.

It was the only direct light in his vision and he couldn't seem to leave it behind. If anyone at his school tried to get to him, the police would be on their way.

 _"Dear, please pay attention," said the woman in a cream twinset who'd purchased Kurt for her son. "We're keeping this on all the time, so be sure to account for that whenever you step outside." She cleared her throat until Blaine looked away from his new toy and gave her his undivided attention. "Do you remember how to do a temporary disarm?" she said as she activated the system. ARMED, it said. No one was getting in. Kurt wasn't getting out._

Realizing he'd stopped breathing, Kurt forced a few deep lungfuls of air. If he were to remain trapped in that house, he suspected he _might_ need to see a therapist. Of course, most people in the world thought that he no longer had a human's mental faculties. That would probably include medical personnel. Still, he knew about luxury spending in Manhattan. People there had therapists for their dogs.

ARMED, said the screen. That was a good thing in that house. He was protected, not trapped. ARMED. It was a good thing.

"Hey, you okay?"

Kurt nearly let out a squeak; he'd lost himself completely inside the glow of the panel. "You scared me," he admitted.

Frowning, Burt took a few steps closer. "Got up to get a drink of water and I saw you staring at that. And... staring at it, and staring at it."

"Just thinking. I couldn't sleep, and then I wanted to come up here and see that it was on." Seeing the look of concern, he admitted, "Bad dreams, yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Burt said gently, and with none of the hesitation Kurt might have expected. After all, his father couldn't handle _guy_ stuff, and given Kurt himself and his recent history, that was only likely.

Because of that, Kurt decided to share. "Three cheerleaders were all over me and I couldn't move. Girls. People I know." Kurt said, "I know that sounds like a letter to _Penthouse_ , but it was really a nightmare." The burning hot feeling of Santana sprawled against his body returned, and Kurt shuddered. "I couldn't move, so I couldn't say no or fight back, and all of a sudden people were _watching_ ," he added with another shudder. His limits of honesty stopped before he mentioned that his own father had been in the audience; probably for the best.

Burt sighed, rubbing his face. He was the only parent on the planet facing the challenge of this all, Kurt realized. Every other parent had simply lost their child. Burt Hummel was fortunate in comparison, but he was sailing uncharted waters. "Come here," he said, holding out his arms. Kurt sank gratefully into them, and even if the hug was much less enveloping than it had used to be, it was still a comfort.

"One of them used me to get pregnant," Kurt mumbled into the soft cotton of his father's sleeping t-shirt. "As if everything else wasn't bad enough."

Burt pushed him far enough back to meet his eyes. "You can't, right?"

Kurt blinked. "I don't think so. It's... no one bothers with protection, and in all these years you'd think you would have heard stories one way or the other...."

"Well, see?" Burt said, smiling like that solved everything. "No need to worry about that, at least."

Oh, well, of course. He'd just tell the fear center of his mind to stop running the image of Quinn's swollen belly on infinite loop. He'd stop picturing a tiny infant, a perfect match for Beth, shooting out of Quinn at full speed and promptly doing loops in the delivery room with her tiny wings flapping furiously. He _hated_ his brain. "Yeah, I guess."

Seeming to realize logic wasn't the end-all answer, Burt sighed and squeezed Kurt's shoulder. "Hey, since we're talking... there's something I wanted to ask you."

"What?" Kurt asked warily. A conversation about nightmares could easily segue into wanting to know exactly how much Kurt was hiding behind his mantra of "not as bad as it could have been," and Kurt worried that he might actually tell him.

"I was wondering how you'd feel about me and Carole moving forward with a wedding." Like he was worried that he'd gone too far and needed to explain himself, Burt hurriedly said, "She was my rock this summer, and we got closer than I ever knew we could. Finn was great, too. But that's me. And you've been through so much that I don't want to push you into doing anything you're not ready for, okay?"

The woman who hugged him completely, without any fear, and the one friend that didn't try to force Kurt to live inside the walls of comforting lies. A slow, soft smile grew. "That'd be okay."

Burt didn't seem to take that as a final answer. "If you're just saying 'okay' to say it... well, I don't want you to lie to me. Because if you'd been through something else and were dealing with it? I could wait. You'd be heading off to college in a couple of years. But this...." He shook his head. "I know you wanted to get out of here. I know you wanted to go to this school or that school, whichever one you decided on." His already sad smile drooped further. "But we both know that can't happen."

"Yeah," Kurt murmured.

"So you'd be with Carole the same as me. Finn can go wherever he wants, soon enough. You can't. She'll talk to him to make sure he's okay with it, but he doesn't have veto power. Not like you do." Burt sighed, not able to finish, but Kurt knew. Kurt had veto power on this one decision because Finn had freedom and a future. The decision meant much less to him than it did to Kurt.

"Yeah." He smiled a little more when Burt looked confused. "I mean, yes. Talk to her. Set a date."

A smile spread, but Burt tamped it down quickly. "Are you _sure_? I know you wouldn't want to deal with having contractors around while they put up new rooms, but it'd mean leaving all of this behind. We'd end up looking for a bigger place."

"When I'm down there alone," Kurt finally said, "and it's only you up here, it feels like it did when I was hiding. Not all the time, but... but some of it. More people, people that I trust? That would be good. Not looking at the stairs and flashing back to seeing the dogs come down them? That would be good."

"I know you put a lot of work into making that place your own, though," Burt said slowly. He was clearly happy, but also determined to make sure that he'd ferreted out every possible issue Kurt might have.

"I did. Then. Now, it feels kind of weird to be in a basement." He saw the look of confusion and, a little reluctantly, extended one wing like he had for Finn. "Not really something designed for underground, you know?"

"Man, they're big," Burt said as he looked over Kurt's shoulder. "I mean, you see pictures, but...." He shook his head. "There's this photo I remember. A big family Halloween get-together before I was around. My folks showed me that picture a lot because it was the last shot of my Grandma Hazel before she died; I never knew her. Aunt Rhonda was just a little girl in it. She had on this white nightgown, and a halo made of pipe cleaners and that stuff you stick on Christmas trees. And these cheap white wings no bigger than this," Burt said, pulling back enough to mark out dimensions maybe twice the size of a paper plate.

"She wore wings as a _costume_?!" Kurt gasped. Sure, people strapped on custom outfits in fetish clubs. Even if he hadn't actively sought out that knowledge, it and the inspiration it provided still floated through the school halls as a fantasy along the lines of the Princess Leia bikini. But to put a little girl in a pair was just sick.

"Apparently it used to be a popular costume, yeah," Burt said. "You know, before things really spread. It was a, y'know, church angel. That's all." He exhaled, clearly wishing he hadn't given quite so much of an explanation. "Or they're smaller in a lot of paintings, that sort of thing. Yours practically look big enough to...." Burt narrowed his eyes when Kurt looked away, grinning just a bit. "No way."

"Finn asked the same thing. It's not that big of a deal," Kurt said lightly, in one of the worst lies of his life.

"Do you want to?" Burt asked, immediately following it up with, "Is it safe?"

"I don't know," Kurt instinctively demurred. That would be outside, drawing attention.

Glancing at the time on the security panel, Burt pointed out, "It's three twelve in the morning. And it's pitch black outside. Really, do you want to? Would this, you know... make you happy?"

His fingers slipped loosely between each other as he dry-washed his hands. It was September: early enough to be pleasant, late enough to avoid all-night backyard parties. No one would watch. No one would stare. "Okay," Kurt said almost shyly as Burt disarmed the system.

"I gotta see this," Burt laughed as they made their way to the back porch and he unlocked the door he'd added to its newly screened walls. "You're really serious? You kinda mentioned it once, but nothing after that. Figured you were kidding. I had no idea. _I_ was kidding."

"Seriously serious," Kurt said as he walked down the wooden slats of the stairs and felt their rough surfaces against his feet. Then it was the grass, cool in the dark but not yet wet with dew. His toes curled against that grass and memorized the feeling of the earth.

"Go on," Burt said, nudging him. "Lemmee see."

Kurt felt suddenly young, like he was bringing home a crayon drawing with the hope that it would be judged as worthy of the refrigerator.

"It _is_ safe, right?" Burt asked him when he hesitated. "Because if it's not, then I don't want you taking one foot off that grass."

In the moments before his death, he'd felt free. It might be the only freedom he had. "Completely," Kurt said, staring straight up at the new moon. With one deep breath, he shot off the ground like he was reaching for it.

He'd lied before. He'd told Finn the wings were practically weightless. At that moment, for the first time, he could say it and mean it. _He_ felt weightless. The wind wrapped him, pulling in a hundred different ways that he somehow knew to navigate, and it was easy to climb the air like a ladder.

Like walking up the steps to a stage, Kurt corrected, and spread his arms wide to an audience of stars. The breezes pushed him ever higher and he could feel every movement they caused. It was gentle, though, leaving him with only a vague sense of contentment rather than seizing control of his mind and body with pleasure.

"Kurt!"

Voice cutting through his good mood like a jolt from his collar, Kurt dropped almost too quickly to control. He landed roughly, falling to his knees, and scrambled up after drawing air back into his lungs. "What? What's wrong?"

"You got too high," Burt said. "It's dark, you got too high... I couldn't see you."

Kurt's shoulders sagged with relief. "Is that all? Look, I'm okay."

"I didn't know that," Burt said. With each passing moment he seemed to relax and realize he'd overreacted. "Sorry. I just... I went around wanting to tape pillows to every corner when you started _walking._ "

Laughing, Kurt nodded. "Okay, Dad. Got it. 'How to deal with your child flying' was probably not in any of those parenting books."

"You can say that again," Burt admitted, then studied Kurt in the dim glow of the porch lights. "You're smiling. Really smiling."

"Am I?" Kurt asked, realizing from the dull ache around his mouth that he was. Those muscles were out of practice. "Oh. Guess so."

Cupping his son's cheek like he had when he was little, Burt promised they'd do this again, then. He'd just have Kurt take a flashlight with him so he could see, and let it be a good thing for both of them.

It wasn't just the flying. It was Carole, and a new house with a fresh start, and Finn who was comfortable in ways he'd only ever been in hazy daydreams. "I'm just happy, I guess," Kurt shrugged. His smile grew. "Let me know what Carole says."

Burt laughed at the reminder. "Would you believe I forgot?"

"Well, you have been in a wedding before," Kurt allowed. "You've never seen this."

"Good point. God, it's good to see you smiling." He choked up, laughed again at his own emotions, and wiped at his eyes. "Really good. I've gotta hit the hay, but... but we'll do this again."

"Okay, Dad," Kurt said, gently patting his arm. "Night."

The woman who'd known exactly what to say wouldn't be leaving the house more evenings than not. Nor would the boy who'd become Kurt's most reliable confidant. There would be a new home, where Kurt wouldn't constantly compare himself against what he'd lost and compare his life against what might have been. And he could be free, if only for moments, with his audience of stars.

With a flash of concern, Kurt settled back against his pillow. Only a flash, but in that moment he hoped that the nightmares wouldn't return. They didn't.

* * *

 

"Who's 'Christopher Cross?'" Finn asked Kurt when he swung by with the weekly groceries. "Are they the two guys who sang that song about jumping?"

Kurt shrugged.

"Because Mr. Schue is forcing us to sing this song by them. Or him." Finn shrugged back at him and started unloading bags. "It's pretty boring. It sounds like an elevator song."

"Will Schuester forcing his Adult Contemporary playlist on the choir?" Kurt said with a smirk, but less rancor than he would have when faced with the performance himself. "You don't say."

"It sucks that you're not there. I know that you can't," Finn quickly added. "But it just doesn't feel the same. Nothing feels the same. Rachel's swaying in the back. Artie and Tina are... did you know they broke up?"

No, he didn't, and the startled expression on Kurt's face told that story.

"Apparently Tina and Mike had been scheduled to do this thing together during the summer? They got together during it. Everyone was really down about you, you know, and it sounded like they leaned on each other a lot. Is it okay that they still went to that camp?" Finn asked like he'd said something wrong.

It took Kurt a second to realize the meaning of Finn's question. He almost laughed, "Of course it is. It might be nice to daydream about everyone forever rending their clothes when they hear I've been taken, but in reality, I'd want people to keep living their lives. I don't get to, but they should." The last bit was too much, he realized from the sad look Finn gave him. "I suppose I'm a little surprised," he said for a topic change as he reached into a bag and started shucking corn. A big dinner was planned that night. Kurt suspected a big announcement would accompany it.

"Surprised about what?"

"Mercedes came over, of course, and keeps coming over. Rachel came over, as... awkward and painful as that was. Even Santana and Brittany did." He sighed as he stripped a cob of the stubbornly clingy strands of silk. "But Tina hasn't, or Artie...."

Tina was probably faced with a situation just as touchy as Rachel's, and so he couldn't blame her too much for it. She was a walking I Told You So and her very presence would remind Kurt of how blind and selfish he'd once been. He supposed she might worry that she'd be seen as judging him or something similarly heartless, and he understood why she was letting others go first.

Artie... Kurt could only speculate. If Finn had shared the bit about flying, and Kurt realized he hadn't told him to keep that a secret, then it might be awkward. One boy's life had changed forever in ways that limited his movement but kept his future open, the other's in a way that enslaved him but let him _fly._ It seemed like something they could get past, but he could see it leading to some long, silent stretches as they fumbled for the right topics. Or maybe school was busy, or he was depressed about Tina. Or all of the above.

"I'm not surprised about Puck," Kurt continued. "I know he was supposedly planning that big prison break, but he never liked me. Mike, we get along but I guess we haven't talked that much. Quinn...." His expression fell and he tried to refocus on a fresh cob. "I expected her to come by."

"Puck wants to see you," Finn immediately said. "But he knows he said some, you know... stuff. When we'd all talk about this kind of, you know... stuff. And he just wanted to make sure you were cool with it."

"Oh," Kurt said in mild surprise. "How uncharacteristically thoughtful. I'll have to let him know it's all right, then." When Finn didn't continue talking, though it seemed he wanted to, Kurt looked at him expectantly and frowned at the unease that practically dripped off the boy.

"I don't think Quinn's stopping by," Finn finally said. "Ever."

That hurt much more than he'd anticipated. They'd been getting along at the end of last year, far more than he had with Santana. She wasn't even going to say hello? "Why?" he asked with more pain in his voice than he intended to reveal.

"You don't want to know," Finn promised, and groaned when Kurt insisted that he did. "You seriously don't! Trust me."

"It can't be worse than anything I'm imagining," Kurt promised him, because in his mind Quinn wanted to avoid him because her thigh boots needed polishing and she wasn't ready to get pregnant again quite yet. "Please, Finn," he said when more hesitation was his only answer.

"You really don't need to know this, come on, man. Don't make me say this to you."

"Finn," Kurt said slowly. "Why doesn't Quinn want to see me?"

"She thinks you're wrong," he mumbled.

A line of confusion dipped between Kurt's eyebrows. "Wrong? Wrong about what?"

"That's the word she used, I dunno. 'Wrong.' She kept saying 'they're all wrong."

Worry worming its way into his gut, Kurt asked in an oddly steady voice, "She thinks something _about_ Angels is inherently wrong?"

"Yeah," Finn said with some relief that he didn't have to say anything further. "So she—"

"What? What does she think is wrong about me?" When Finn hesitated again, Kurt's jaw set. "Tell me. I want to know what she's saying. Exactly." Silence was his only answer, and with a short, irritated sigh Kurt grabbed a knife and raised it high. He knew how to get his way. "Do you want to watch me cut off a finger again? Because I will."

Finn paled. "Not cool, man! Don't threaten me with that."

All right, that was unfair, but so was dangling Quinn's judgment in front of him without a full explanation. "Just tell me."

"It's the name," Finn relented. "She keeps saying that you can't be an 'Angel' if you started off as a person, and that it's gross to use that name when you're all about, um, sex stuff."

"Oh," Kurt said with mild sadness. Was that all? It wasn't like they'd ever been friends, but they had been getting along. It was a little disheartening to be thrown away over a vocabulary issue; it wasn't like he'd chosen the stupid label. And he certainly hadn't decided that he wanted to be a handy receptacle for people's fantasies. No, he realized from that shadow in Finn's eyes. No, that wasn't all. "What else does she say is wrong?" he asked quietly.

"There are rumors," Finn finally said. "That you guys can't really, um, die."

"Yeah, I've heard those," Kurt said in the most casual voice he could.

"Everyone knows for sure that you don't get older, and then if those are true and you can't die...." He shrugged and folded his arms around himself, like Kurt often did. "She says it's wrong. God's supposed to be in charge of that kind of stuff, and it 'spits in his face' to call you guys Angels when you're ignoring him. Or whatever. She had all these arguments, she started quoting that song about how everything has a season, and then she and Mercedes started shouting at each other. 'God doesn't make mistakes' versus 'well, _God_ clearly didn't make them,' and it was pretty much a giant clusterfuck."

Working through that, Kurt slowly said, "So... Quinn thinks I'm an agent of Satan." That might well be the most absurd statement he'd ever had the displeasure of speaking aloud. He didn't know whether to feel more offended that such things were being said about him or that anyone, anywhere on the planet would actually think them at all.

"I wouldn't go that far," Finn half-laughed. "She doesn't think you're evil or anything. I mean. I don't think she does. But... but she's got issues. And I don't think she'd ever really see _you_ again. Ever."

"Does she call me it?" Kurt asked.

Finn quietly rearranged bottles on the spice rack for a while before saying, "Not when she thinks we can hear. She might leave, too, with how people are getting on her case. Puck's already making big plans to bring in new people, since he didn't get to, y'know, wear camo and go all Mission Impossible."

Well, then. He'd expected it to happen to at least one person. He supposed he should be grateful that it was someone with whom he'd had only the most tenuous of friendships. Mercedes wasn't respecting his boundaries, and he suspected that a lifetime's worth of social conditioning saying that he didn't _have_ any boundaries played into that, but she saw her friend. Changed, but himself. Had 'it' come out of her mouth he didn't know if he ever could have recovered.

Brittany said 'it,' but it was borne out of ignorance rather than malice. She didn't know what was going on. When she had looked at him, Kurt didn't see one shade of difference between that year and the previous one. With that terrible moment behind him he understood that she still saw him, wholly and completely, and had only said 'it' because she thought it was what she was supposed to do.

Quinn knew exactly what had happened and she had written him off as a person. There it was, then.

"I told you that I didn't want to tell you," Finn sighed.

"It's better to know. Look, I had Santana coming to my defense and I never thought I would see that happen, so... positives and negatives. It all evens out." Kurt inhaled, exhaled, and then asked, "But Mike? If he's slinging around 'it' as well, then feel free to lie. I can accept Quinn, but two people in one day would be a little... why are you looking at me like that?"

"Um."

"Um what?" Kurt warily asked.

"Right. So. Mike wanted to see you, and so he went grocery shopping with me. He's been waiting in the car until I tell him it's okay."

Kurt goggled at Finn, and then laughed despite the heartache of Quinn. "He's been waiting all this time? God, Finn. Go get him! Yes, it's fine, go," he insisted when Finn hesitated.

Grabbing a stack of plastic-wrapped packages from the bags, Finn promised he'd be right back. After a short detour to the porch he reappeared, pointed at the garage door, and vanished again. Kurt shook his head, smiling, and started washing tomatoes for the salad. He had the chance to cut several of them before the duo appeared; Finn must have been laying down ground rules. "Hi," he said when he saw Mike looking at him with a clear reluctance to try to set a tone for the conversation. "I swear it wasn't my fault you've been sitting in the car all this time."

As Mike seemed to realize Kurt wasn't going to weep or wail or collapse at a touch, he grinned. "Good to know."

"So," Kurt drawled, "you and Tina. I can't say I saw that coming." Finn tried to start cutting up salad ingredients, but Kurt slapped his hands away when he saw the ragged cuts.

"Yeah, well. Everyone was pretty not okay. Tina and I just wanted to go somewhere and get our minds off...." Mike's expression dropped, like he thought he'd made a fatal error and would soon be thrown bodily from the house. _Yeah, you were being enslaved and raped, but us? Man, we had to think about it! We totally had to distract ourselves,_ he could see in Mike's eyes.

"I get it," Kurt said, even if his earlier insistence that he wanted people to keep living their lives wasn't quite as loud in his head. It did hurt a little to know that people had wanted to distract themselves from _him._

"Oh. Good. It sounded like they fought right before the camp because Artie was mad that she'd leave him alone, she said that she had to do _something_ , and, well... ta-da," Mike said a bit weakly.

"Oh my God," Kurt said abruptly, clapping his hand over his mouth and trying not to retch. Both boys stepped toward him, asking what was wrong, and Kurt waved them away lest they block his exit. His father was outside grilling the meat Finn had delivered, and the smoke seeped through even closed windows. Though he could handle the scent of prepared food from the short distance of a dining table, the smoke wrapped around him was as putrid as anything on a midden heap. Not able to stand it any more, he pushed through the two and took the basement stairs at a run, slamming the door behind him.

It was silent until Kurt realized what his exit must have looked like. He opened the door again just long enough to say, "You can come down, but close the door behind you!"

When the boys inched down the stairs, closing the door as instructed, both looked at him like he'd shatter. Kurt hated that look. "No more barbecuing," he explained to Finn, "unless everything gets relocated to the far end of the yard. Or Illinois."

The explanation washed away Finn's tension in a visible wave, and he laughed with it. "Oh. Don't worry, Mike, he's fine. The smell just made him wanna puke. He can only handle, like, bird food now." Finn paused as Kurt rolled his eyes with well-trained drama. "Bad word choice. Rabbit food. I'll call it rabbit food."

"Got it," Mike said. Bizarrely, he seemed to be struggling to hold back laughter and Kurt couldn't help but ask what was so funny. "No," he said, but every second that passed made his face twist that much more. "I shouldn't be thinking this."

"Just spit it out," Kurt said, and that finally made Mike start laughing. "What?" he demanded.

"Okay, this is totally inappropriate and I am _sorry_ , but I'm just... thinking really stupid jokes about you not being able to eat meat and I'm _sorry_ , I really hate my brain!" Mike finished with a voice that was pleading when he wasn't choking back giggles.

Kurt stared at him. Finn did, too.

"Sorry!" Mike said, looking like he either wanted to howl with laughter or kill himself.

"I hate you so much," Kurt said with only a slight tinge of sincerity. Far more than that was a strange sort of delight that someone would joke with him, be inappropriate with him, and treat him like someone who could take a friend's jab.

The tension seemed gone for good, or at least for that visit. There would be no weepy confirmations that his suffering hadn't been too awful or musing on what his diminished role now was in the world. There was only the sight of friends spending time in a comfortable room, discussing the future instead of the past.

"Brittany and I have been trying to put something interesting together for this stupid song," Mike eventually sighed as he demonstrated a few moves. "But seriously, have you heard it?" When Kurt shook his head, he insisted that they take an iTunes break and listen to the preview.

"Aren't show choirs supposed to _dance?_ " Kurt groaned. "Ugh, that man. Tell him he needs to pick something with a beat to it. Rihanna or Britney or Beyoncé or someone." He saw their dubious looks and added, expecting this to go over with the straight boys like catnip for kittens, "Aerosmith."

Mike and Finn stared at each other, starry-eyed. "Sweet Emotion," Finn suggested, but looked just as pleased with Mike's counter of "What Kind of Love Are You On." Then, like a beam of heavenly light had opened above them, both said in unison, "Walk. This. Way."

"Are you sure you don't want to do Rihanna?" Kurt asked as they started planning their attack. "Britney?" They ignored him. "More Gaga?"

"You have to help me do new moves," Mike said, sounding like he wanted to jump up and kick his heels together. Considering this was Mike Chang, he might well actually do it. "If we can come in with a full routine, Mr. Schue's _gotta_ let us get out of singing that thing. Come on, put the song on and I'll start working stuff out."

That was how Carole found them some time later: Aerosmith blasting in the basement on Repeat: One, Mike dancing as Kurt offered feedback and tried to duplicate the moves so Mike could see what did and didn't work, and Finn singing into a hairbrush. (He'd already claimed lead.) "You seem to be having fun," she said over the loud music.

Turning it down, Kurt said, "Oh, Carole. I had to leave; the barbecue smelled too strong. Sorry, the salad stuff is still all up there."

"That explains it," she said, smiling a little. "Okay, I'll finish that up and tell your dad to make sure everything's cleared out before he calls you up. Mike, I hope you don't mind if I ask you to take off when I do call them up for dinner."

A huge spread of food, and a teenage boy was being asked to leave before it was served? Bingo. Wedding announcement. Kurt fought back his smile and promised they were all fine with that, and that he hoped she really didn't mind if they stayed down there until everything was ready.

"Of course not. Spend time with your friend," Carole said with that same 'oh, it's so good to see you not wasting away like some Victorian consumption victim' expression that Burt sometimes wore.

"Okay," Finn said when the door closed. "Put the music back on. We've got a deadline, now."

Eventually Mike said he needed to think about things more, though, and Finn's voice needed a rest. For his part, Kurt was just glad to be able to turn off the damn song. After that many repetitions Steven Tyler's voice was making him want to hit things. Mostly Steven Tyler.

"You still move pretty well," Mike said when he'd taken a seat on the floor to do the stretching he should have tackled before he danced. "I guess I'm a little surprised. That's a whole lot of... stuff to get used to."

"He says they're really light," Finn said before Kurt could answer. "And it's like he's totally used to them. One'll pop out a little to help him keep his balance, and they get all messy when he's upset, and—"

"I'm right _here_ ," Kurt protested as Finn tried to discuss him like some inanimate object.

"Sorry," Finn said. "I've just been trying not to say anything, because I didn't know what I was allowed to talk about, and oh my God I didn't tell you guys that he can _fly!_ "

"No way," Mike marveled. "Finn's just making that up, right?"

"Couple of days ago," Kurt said, finger pointing straight up toward the unseen sky overhead. He shrugged at Finn when the boy protested that Kurt hadn't told him, and that he wanted to see. "It was the middle of the night; I rather doubt you would have appreciated a three AM call saying 'get over here, I'm going to....'" Kurt's mouth dropped open. " _How_ have I never pulled out 'Defying Gravity?'" he asked, just resisting the urge to slap his hand against his forehead. "I need a playlist."

"He's making playlists," Finn said like it was something conspiratorial. "He'll be fine."

Mike looked between them, grinning openly at the easy back-and-forth. "This is totally crazy. You've gotta show us sometime, okay?"

"Well, I—"

"If he cuts off a finger it grows right back," Finn interjected. "It's pretty much the grossest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Mike stared at Kurt, appalled. His wonder over the flying fell with an almost audible thunk into asking, "What kind of a messed-up Frankenstein lab are you running here?"

It was difficult not to giggle at that expression of horror and Kurt just barely kept control. "It's research. No one knows what changes happen—past the obvious—and I might as well find out. I'm stuck with everything, after all. It's no different than... than seeing how quickly I can run a mile," he said for an example that the two footballers would be sure to understand.

Turning to Finn, Mike said, "Oh, yeah. Remember that practice where Beiste had us run a mile, and then we all cut off our toes? Totally the same thing."

Rolling his eyes, Kurt drawled, "Very funny. Look, this stuff's taken over my life. I just want to know about it." He rummaged through his sewing kit, brushing aside a shirt in the process of being altered, and found a large needle sized for the dense material of outerwear. Holding it up until he had their attention, he pierced the pad of one thumb.

Both winced instinctively. It was hard not to fire back that a little prick from a needle barely registered in Kurt's mind, not after the torture he'd felt from his collar. This was an easy moment, even if those two were torn between curiosity and horror, and there was no need to ruin it. "See?" he said as he used his other hand to press on the skin below the puncture, forcing out a larger bead of blood than would normally form. A pearl of sunlight clung to his skin before fading.

Four dark eyes were staring, transfixed, at that point when Kurt looked away from his hand. "Dude," Mike finally settled on.

"I kinda saw that with, you know... the finger," Finn said. "But I was distracted. This is _cool._ "

Like dangling a favorite toy in front of a cat, Kurt once again pierced his thumb and freed the soft glow of his blood into the cool basement air. Neither was looking at him with the judgment of a freak, of being something _wrong_. He felt like the same person as ever, simply presenting some minor point of interest at a gathering of friends: a new video game, a funny story, magical glowing blood. One and the same, really.

No, Kurt realized. Mike looked at him like he was the same as ever, just bringing something fascinating to the table. Finn, though... something in Finn's eyes was changing when he stared at the rhythmic work of the needle. For once, it wasn't for the worse, and it was deeper than his experiment with his finger. He saw Kurt differently, though Kurt didn't know how, but it didn't feel like judgment or a threat.

He saw him differently. Kurt supposed he was. He supposed that didn't have to be bad.

"Mike?" Carole asked, opening the door. "If Finn gave you a ride home, then he'll either need to run you over, or you'll need to call someone. We'll be eating soon."

"I'll do it," Finn said. "He lives pretty close." With a promise to be back soon on Finn's part, and a promise to get the choir singing _real_ music on Mike's, they made their goodbyes and walked up the stairs. Once they passed Carole she descended them, looking knowingly at Kurt.

"What?"

"I know your dad asked you if this was okay," Carole said. "I'm really touched that you trust me enough to let me in, Kurt. This is... it's going to be a big change for you."

"A big change for _me?_ A big change for you. I know you love my father, but that doesn't mean you'd automatically want...." Kurt sighed and settled on the armrest of the couch. "I'm sure, when you started dating, that you pictured both of us going off to college, you'd have someone to take trips with and go to Buckeyes games, and everything like that. And now you're stuck with me. And there's no way I'd ever fit even remotely into that stadium, but there's also not a chance he'd leave me alone in that huge parking lot to read. He wouldn't be able to think about anything else."

After she'd respectfully let him finish without arguing each point, Carole walked a little closer before saying, "Like you said, we've been watching those games on television. It's okay if we keep doing that. And you know, maybe stadiums aren't places for you, or concert halls or anything, but that doesn't mean we can't take trips. I won't push you. I know you're the one who'd have to ignore people looking. But we could save up and eventually go to... oh, let's go crazy. France!"

"France?" Kurt asked hopefully. Home of high fashion and fine cuisine? Even if his diet had changed, and even if much of the latest lines were off-limits, there would be something. And he could intellectually appreciate the rest. "I've taken French. I'm not fluent yet, but I'm pretty good. I should buy a book and keep studying."

"Then you can be our guide," Carole said kindly. "See?"

"That didn't answer my main point, though. You're stuck with me. If you go through with this wedding, you will never be able to get rid of me _ever_. Just... do you realize that?" It was one thing to assume his father would step up to that responsibility. If Kurt needed a blood donation, a kidney, or a new _heart_ , he knew Burt would be in front of a doctor telling them to just rip out whatever they needed, and that his own health didn't matter. Of course he would step up to the challenge of protecting his son for the rest of his life. Carole was free, though. This wasn't a normal marriage and he would not be a normal stepson.

"Oh, sweetie," she said. "Here's a dirty little secret: parents want our kids to grow up and be successful, but a lot of us would also be thrilled if they did that right there at home. We never say it, because it's not fair to guilt you into staying close, but parents are sad when they take their kids to college for a reason. That nice lady next door, whose son lives with her? She has to be so happy he's there."

"She got sick," Kurt allowed, "and he moved back home to help. She did look better after that."

"It would be so much better for you if you were able to move away and live your biggest dreams and find someone. I'm not saying otherwise. But until then, it won't be a bad thing. I promise." Carole held out her arms, and Kurt relaxed into them with the same ease as he'd ever shown with his father. Unlike that father's hold in recent days, Carole's hug was strong and fearless.

It felt wonderful and encouraging and safe, right up until when her hand accidentally brushed against the base of one wing. Kurt moaned softly against her hair before he could help it, and then tried to jerk away with his burning embarrassment.

"Sorry," she giggled as she held him firmly enough to make him think twice about bolting but loosely enough that he still had the choice to leave. "I'll find the right angles."

"Sorry," he whispered back.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for. Want more hugging?" Carole grinned. "I always heard I gave great hugs. Oh, Kurt, it really is all right. I know you can't help it. And one touch won't do much, um, damage, right?" she asked with a light tone. When he didn't reply that eased into asking, "Unless you don't feel okay with me touching you even on accident...."

"No, no, it's not that," he said. He didn't like it when Mercedes grabbed for them, because they were her sole focus. If he had to put up with a bit of embarrassment to get a hug, where the wings were something to be avoided but not feared, then that seemed like a fair trade-off. But it was just hard to believe she was okay with it, and he finally stammered out something to that effect.

"You're not my birth son, like you are Burt's. And Burt, well... he's a little uptight about some things," she confided. "Plus, unlike most teenage boys, I know it's got nothing to do with me, even though I am still smoking hot."

He laughed a little. "Of course you are."

"So there we go," she concluded. "If you need real hugs, you come to me until your dad comes around and realizes he's being stupid."

Kurt pulled back from her. Carole's hurt look at the apparent rejection faded in an instant when he said, "I'm really going to like having you for a mom." Tears in her eyes, she pulled him back in, kissed him on one cheek, and promised she'd like it a lot, too. And then, the call for dinner. "Showtime," he told her.

Kurt wound up seated a little distant from the others as they ate; he promised he'd come closer when it was time for dessert. It was a good moment, a happy moment, and he didn't want to associate those memories with nausea. A warm breeze wafted through the screened walls of the porch. Bees hung outside its borders. Like he was spiting them, Kurt dipped an almond in honey and ate it defiantly.

"Finn," Carole said when much of the food had been consumed. Finn had tackled it like a challenge, piling so much onto his plate that Kurt wondered how his stomach could hold it, and still went back for seconds. Now Finn was full, sleepy, and happy. Hopefully he'd stay that way. "We wanted to talk to you about something."

Burt smiled at Finn, but his glance kept darting between everyone on the porch. He desperately wanted this to work out, Kurt saw. He'd thought his only family had been taken from him, and now he wanted the miracle of Kurt's return to snowball into even bigger news.

"Did you bring pie?" Finn said hopefully.

"Well, yes," Carole said, "but that wasn't the big news."

"You know me and your mom have talked about, you know, where we're at," Burt said, picking up the thread. "And all this summer, she and I got real close. You and me, Finn, we got along great, right?" At Finn's nod, he continued, "Kurt and Carole get along, and you boys have been great, now."

"Things kinda changed," Finn admitted. "A lot."

"It's crazy what enslavement and dehumanization will do to change perspectives," Kurt said lightly, and shrank in on himself a little when the three turned to him. "Sorry, I swear it's a joke. Not trying to ruin the moment."

"But it's not a joke," Finn countered. "This is big and serious, and... yeah. Stuff changed. I saw that I had to step up."

After exchanging a glance at that, Burt and Carole took a deep breath. Carole was the one to continue, "So, Burt and I have talked about making things a little more... official."

"Cool," Finn said, staring at the plate of hamburgers like he was debating whether there was room for yet another one and a slice of pie. "When is it?"

"What?"

"The wedding. When's the wedding?" As everyone gawked at him, Finn looked suddenly uncomfortable and said, "That's... what you meant, right?"

"Yeah," Burt said, a little flummoxed. "We just didn't know if you'd be okay with it."

"Okay, I mean this with total respect. I swear. But Burt," Finn pointed out, "I sat next to you for hours while you told me all these stories about Kurt when he was little and totally cried. Cried like a _baby._ And I did it because even a moron could see that this was a big, freaking huge deal, and we had to step up and be there for each other. And we still do, and we still will. Everything already kind of feels official, anyway, so this is just... the piece of paper."

No one said anything immediately, and Finn began to look nervous again. "Um. Okay, now someone else go."

"I'm so proud of you," Carole said like she was seeing her son for the first time. "Do you really mean all that, about stepping up and... and everything?"

"Yes? I dunno? Can you guys all stop looking at me? I just want pie."

"I'll go get it," Kurt laughed, shooting Finn a look with what he felt was a precisely appropriate amount of adoration. Before, he'd fallen into a stupid daydream of love with someone who occasionally looked guilty as he bullied him. It was one thing for Finn to wake him from a nightmare or fret over his safety. But to hear that he'd been there for his father as he wept for months... that was love. What was happening there, in every combination between them, was love.

He could write stories, Kurt thought as he rummaged around the kitchen, but he could also write songs. He'd find his footing and his voice while standing on the core of his world, stripped of all that didn't matter and the people who wanted to forget him and whom he'd forget in return. When he found the pie, sliced it, and returned to the porch, the three people there looked at him with expectant smiles. Kurt smiled back.


	4. Chapter 4

It was time to look to the future. Knowing the housing market was still anything but reliable, Carole and Finn put theirs up for sale immediately. Should they buck the national trends somehow, everyone agreed the Hummel house had enough space even without an expansion. So long as they had their eyes on that future new home, everything would work out in the short term.

"I insist," Kurt said for what felt like the hundredth time as he held out Burt's keys. "Go." With no shortage of promises to check in over the phone, short visits to the garage were replaced with a return to his father's full work schedule.

On that first solitary afternoon he finally worked up the courage to call Tina after Glee. Assured that it was fine for her to come by, she was soon at the front door as Kurt disarmed the security system. (He'd grown to love the thing after glancing out the front window and seeing intense expressions staring back at him from the sidewalk. Sometimes a jock, occasionally a Cheerio, and always someone with visibly frustrated entitlement.)

"Hey," Tina said after the door opened and they looked at each other until it became uncomfortable.

"Hey," Kurt said in return. "So, this happened."

"I am so sorry," she said, wincing.

"Come on in. I don't like to leave the door open. I'm not exactly seen as in control of my own destiny, if anyone wanted to cause trouble." That only made her wince more, but there was nothing to be done. It was a short walk to the street, a road lined with typical city lots that gave far less buffer room than he'd prefer. It wasn't wise to tempt fate with anyone walking by.

"Mike said he came by," she said with clearly false cheer when they'd settled into the living room. "He said you were doing really good."

"Mike did come by," Kurt confirmed. This was so _awkward_ , every second of it. In theory Tina should have been his staunchest ally, but that was only if he ignored the person he'd been. The Kurt Hummel who once existed in government records was greedy, selfish, and blind, and Tina had told him as much. Sometimes she'd used those exact words. She and Rachel were both living in the extremes as they dealt with what had happened, where the waves of that storm were roughest.

"We were worried about... you know," she said, not quite able to meet his eyes. "We all know what happens." They all knew because she'd been telling them, he heard her add in his head. "But Mike said you were almost... cheerful, I guess? And Finn said 'oh, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.'"

"My words exactly," Kurt said, feeling comforted that Finn was relying on them without any ornamentation. That would only lead to potential slip-ups; better to repeat the party line. Relief dawned across her face and both of them relaxed.

"That's really good," she agreed.

"Oh, you have no idea." Kurt let the words slip out without thinking. An aborted party for him to lose his virginity, losing his name, fighting a losing battle to keep hold of himself: if it had been that bad, anything worse might have broken him. She seemed to understand that something unpleasant was in his mind and for a long stretch their halting conversation was replaced with the soft shouts of children enjoying the still-pleasant weather.

"We're doing your song," Tina finally said.

"My song?"

"Mike and Finn said you picked it out," she said with obvious confusion. "That's why Mr. Schue agreed to change, because today they did this whole guilt trip about how it's what _you_ wanted and... they totally lied, didn't they?"

He laughed, "Totally."

She laughed, too. "Oh well. At least the song is way more fun."

"I should have really pushed for someone I like more," Kurt said dryly, "if I'm such a powerful tool as a guilt trip. How does... how is Mr. Schue doing?"

"Not great," Tina admitted. "He remembers all those lines he fed everyone about how 'oh, let's make you all big stars.' It's like he thinks he let you down."

"Coach Sylvester?"

"You don't wanna—"

"Oh my God, I cannot even tell you how sick I am of hearing that," Kurt groaned. He was stuck inside that damned house until they figured out what his life would be, and then the people he knew seemed determined to steal even the freedom of information away from him. "If I didn't have these, would you still try to decide what's best for me?" he asked her when she still hesitated.

"Okay," Tina said. "Fair enough. She was in Figgins' office basically screaming at him to find a way to get you enrolled again."

"That doesn't sound bad," Kurt said. "It's not going to happen, but it's sort of nice to know that she went to bat for me."

"Figgins...." She winced and stopped, but continued with a sigh when he gestured her onward. "Figgins is a total party line man. He pulled out every stupid, _offensive_ law on the books about how you're not a... well, you know what happened."

He did. He wasn't even allowed to have a Facebook account any more. That had been one of the deletions that had been shared with him during his paralysis and recovery. Given that the age of nearly all discovered Angels put them under the minimum requirements for the site, the company had only been too happy to comply with that 'suggestion.' It prevented anyone from discovering a profile an Angel had made on the sly at eleven years old and posting detailed descriptions of what they would do to them in their new form. His broke no such rules, but it belonged to an Angel and so it was deleted. Kurt supposed he was glad he hadn't come back to find such fantasies written out on his wall.

Refocusing, he shrugged. "I hardly expected Figgins to stand up for me, Tina. I don't know why you'd worry about telling me this." But there was something else, clearly, and with a weary flip of his hand he gestured for her to come out with it.

"I wasn't there to hear it. Jacob Ben Israel posted the footage. You're a... you're kind of a hot topic. I guess you haven't checked his blog?" She looked sympathetic at his tired, slow shake of his head. "He hasn't been bugging you, has he?"

"No. Not a bit." Unauthorized photography of him, or any Angel, could land a person in prison. Trespassing on an owner's land was a dangerous proposition. He still didn't trust the law to keep him safe moment-to-moment, not when he'd seen those dark looks from some of the jocks who were clearly in the 'masturbation fodder' camp that Santana described, but Jacob had a bigger-picture view than most. He'd dance along the limits of what he could get away with, occasionally slip up, but not be stupid enough to land himself behind bars.

"Well, that's good, at least." She took in his drawn expression and suggested a topic change, a suggestion on which Kurt jumped gladly. Told to ask him anything else, _anything_ , she considered that possibility. "How does it feel?" Tina asked. She leaned in like she wanted to corner him and every last word he uttered.

Kurt thought that over holistically, like she seemed to mean, rather than simply focusing on the wings themselves. "Different," he settled on, and she couldn't help but snort. "I know, obvious answer."

"Kind of," she admitted.

"You know those mornings when you wake up with a bit of a sore throat, and you hope that it was simply dry air overnight rather than something that'll get worse as the day goes on?" Waiting for her nod, he finished, "That never happens any more."

"Oh," she said, seeming both confused and surprised that his answer centered around something so trivial.

"There have been days—weeks—when I would walk around barely being able to breathe, because a slam against lockers or the dumpsters caught me wrong on my ribs. Even if I were out by those bullies again, that wouldn't happen. It's _so_ strange," he said, only realizing the words as he said them, "but even as I can't stop worrying about what this body _means_ for this in my life, or for that? For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not worried about my actual body. Healing," he added to clear up any confusion.

 _Father,_ he added mentally, for the reason why he was no longer frightened about what else would be done to that healing body. Things that wouldn't have left marks on anything but his heart.

"Finn said something about a finger," Tina said somewhat weakly.

"Oh, of course he did," Kurt said with a moue of his mouth. Really, the boy did obsess. It _had_ grown right back.

"And food?" she prompted.

"Oh, he told you that, too? Glad to know he's been discussing me," he said, but waved off her explanation that they really had been grilling Finn for any information. He supposed he couldn't blame him, or any of them. Kurt would have been the same way if someone else had grown wings. He would have been just as guilty as Rachel. "Yes, that's been a huge change. At first—when I was hiding—I'd try to eat things that smelled... off, I suppose? But I couldn't keep it down."

"You've lost a lot of weight," she confirmed.

"I seem to have bottomed out," he said with a shrug. "And I suppose the one thing I can rest assured of is that anything that happens to this body is healthy." It felt good to talk about this, Kurt realized. It felt like recording data. He was analyzing things, he was making sense of them. "There are other things," he said in a quieter voice. "Things I haven't really wanted to think about, because I'm... I'm worried."

"Aging?" she asked.

He shrugged. "That's a big one, but everyone knows it. There are all these tiny little _changes_. Like... the longer I'm here, the more I don't like being in my room." He gestured to the living room, rather than the basement where he'd hosted her before. "I'll be fine down there for a while, and all of a sudden I can't take it. I have to be upstairs."

"Huh," she said with a slightly furrowed brow. He supposed it did sound odd. He didn't know how to communicate the claustrophobic feeling that those underground walls would impose out of nowhere. It was a huge room, pale and well-lit, but ever since he'd shown the wings to Finn he'd been aware of how something felt _off_ about the space. "Anything else?"

Nightmares. Uncontrollable sexual urges at a touch. Being the source of a strange fixation of every A-lister at William McKinley. Instead he settled on, "The world just looks different. I don't know how to explain it. It's... oh, you know how you'll see a place in a movie and it's gorgeous? And then you see it in real life and it just looks plain, without the perfect camera angles and the lighting and everything?" At her nod he finished, "I'm in the movie. All the time. Everything's just... pretty."

"That sounds kind of nice, actually," she said with a lopsided smile.

"You'd think so, but I just don't know _why_ it is. Why any of this is!" He sighed and slumped against the cushions, aware of the sensation of flattening his wings against his back. "Those are things changing inside my head, Tina. I already don't... I lose control with some things. I don't want to lose myself."

"Have you noticed any more changes?" she asked, frowning a little.

"No," he admitted. "The last one was the basement, and it only started when I, well, unfolded down there," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "It's all stuff that I've been noticing for a while. I'm just scared," he concluded. "I didn't even get to keep my name when I was taken. Back home, I don't get to keep my clothes, my car, my _library card_... my future...."

"You just need to find something to focus on," Tina said. "You've been through so much. I can't even imagine it all, Kurt. It's no wonder that you're freaking out over little changes. And they _do_ sound little. This is where you were taken; maybe you're actually freaking over being 'trapped' again? And your blood's different, right? Maybe it's something about that in your eyes, and nothing in here," she said, tapping the side of her head.

Maybe. That made sense.

"If you need something to distract yourself," she continued very carefully, "then, you know, I could point you to some websites and give you some books to read. A lot of people have been writing about Angels. How the laws should be changed, what sort of pressure needs to be made to see that happen...."

"I really can't think of anything that sounds less appealing than hearing people speculate on my life," Kurt said. "Even if they are well-meaning."

"They're trying to help," she promised. "I'm trying to help. I've always been trying. You were... okay, Kurt, I've tried not to bring this up. But you were a jerk about this before. And so you wouldn't have heard. But there are protests. Little ones, but they're there. People in power are figuring out ways to make statements of their own, like Clooney when he—"

"George Clooney paraded his pet on stage. She was a prize like his Oscar," Kurt retorted.

"I know you don't have to believe me, but there really are people who realize this is bad, okay? He's given so many speeches about human rights violations and everything that... okay. We don't have any justification for it. Not really," Tina admitted. "But we still know that he was making a _statement._ It's a honor to be on the Oscars stage. You're a big deal if you're up there, and you're definitely a person."

"I know his attractiveness has some sort of freaky reverse Benjamin Button thing going on, but you really don't have to justify him to me," Kurt said dryly. "So you have a crush, big deal."

She let out a frustrated noise. "No one important can say anything out loud. If they do, they'd be calling everyone they work with, everyone who awards them contracts... 'rapist. Slaver. Torturer.' But some of them must see what's going on. They just...." Her fervor left her abruptly and she seemed drained. "They have to. Some celebrities have to. Otherwise, without any sort of spokesperson to rally around, this is going to take forever." Shuddering like a tremendous chill had seized her, Tina gasped audibly. "Oh my... that's it. This is _it_ , don't you understand?"

"No," he said honestly, eying her.

"You!" She nodded, grinning, as he pointed to himself in confusion. "Kurt, you can be that voice everyone's been hunting for. I mean, we know about that 'training' they put them through," Tina continued with a sneer, "and how there's hardly anything left of the person afterward. But you're still you! The way you talk and move, no one would be able to deny that you're a person. Right? There are all these organizations that would kill to have you as their face—"

"Stop!" he gasped. "Tina, no."

"Kurt, you _have to._ It's your responsibility to stand up, don't you see that? Everyone needs to know you, be convinced that you're still a person, and hear what sort of sick things—"

"No!"

She hissed out a short breath. "You _owe_ it to all the other people like you to let the world get to know your face and tell them what you went through."

"No," he almost sobbed.

"Kurt, this is important! People _need_ to hear what was done to you."

Voice pitching toward hysteria, he fired back, "I am not being trotted out by PETA—"

"Oh my God, it's not PETA," Tina began, but he continued over her.

"—or _whoever_ it is as their resident sob story, so the entire world can hear in lovingly gruesome detail about how I was _raped_ , okay? Is that the magic word you want to hear?" Kurt asked desperately. "Is that what'll get you charity donations? Because I'm sorry, I just can't do it. I can't. I can't."

"You... Kurt...." Her mouth worked and tears stood in her eyes. "Finn said it wasn't that bad."

No. No. _No._ Even the people who said they were on his side ignored the word. They wanted to reduce him to a role designated by his wings and revel in his suffering. Curling in on himself and shuddering with each memory that rumbled like aftershocks, Kurt whispered, "Finn lied. I know it might help. But I'm sorry. I can't. Not now, and I don't know if ever."

Nameless boys staring at him on a staircase and picking apart his looks. Being forced to beg and plead for more assaults on his body. Hearing which parts of his life had been thrown into the shredder to prod him toward forgetting the person he'd once been. Using his rare time alone to cry, so that he wouldn't give his owner the satisfaction. Knowing that his first time was forever stolen, and even after he was freed, wondering if he'd ever be comfortable again with the idea of sex.

The government had tried to reduce him to a thing. If he stood up in front of an audience and told those tales, for all that Tina said they'd see him as a person, he knew the lie when he heard it. The world loved a trainwreck. He would be nothing more than the sum of his suffering.

"Kurt, I didn't mean to... oh God, I'm sorry," Tina said, hands working frantically in the air. "I didn't mean to push."

"Can you just go, please?" he asked her. He could _feel_ his progress begin to slip away, torn off him like shingles in a tornado, and she had to get out of there before he lost control.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, okay?" she said as she slowly gathered her things and began inching off the couch toward the door. "And I won't tell people anything. This is all private."

"Please just _go_ ," he said almost frantically as he felt tears bead at the corners of his eyes.

She bolted for the door without another word, leaving him to his privacy. The security system started beeping at the opening, even with the immediate closure after, and Kurt realized he only had thirty seconds to disarm the system before it called for help. Deadlines. Pressure. Being forced to do things. His fingers shook as he typed in the code with only two seconds to spare; when he armed it again, his hand was nearly out of his control.

It wasn't about just Tina, he knew as he rushed downstairs and cranked on the shower. She was trying to help. That was the problem. The people trying to hurt him and the people trying to help him... they all saw him as a pawn. His friends loved him, but outside that circle he would be a thing. Always, always a thing. Always, he thought as he scrubbed like he had on that first day home.

Memories weren't suppressed with the scrubbing. Instead, each hard stroke seemed to unearth more. Hands. A hot mouth. Pain. Nausea. Death.

Kurt cried into the water, growing angry at himself for getting worse instead of better. He was _dealing._ He was dancing, laughing, joking. Planning a new home. Things were supposed to be fixed, and he was supposed to have left everything behind.

 _You just need something to focus on_ , Tina told him in knowing tones.

All he could focus on was the water and it wasn't enough to hold back memories that he'd locked behind a dam with cracks and leaks. Kurt kept scrubbing, not because he felt dirty but because the motion was something he knew. It was simple, but it was comforting and it was one tiny thing on which to focus.

He couldn't be that spokesperson.

Maybe he should. Maybe he did owe it to everyone.

He couldn't.

Maybe that was something else wrong with him.

"Kurt?"

It took him a while to realize his name was being called. It seemed to come from somewhere far away, somewhere he couldn't possibly shout loud enough to be heard, and he didn't answer. Even the sound of the door opening sounded like it had nothing to do with him.

"The shower's been on for a long time, buddy," Burt said. "You okay?" When Kurt didn't answer he stepped closer, said his name again with a tinge of fear in it, and inched the curtain back. "The water's cold, Kurt," he said very carefully. "Why don't you come on out?

"Here," Burt said gently as he turned off the stream, vanished for a moment, and returned with towels in hand. He began patting him gently, like an infant, and Kurt only thought to grab it himself and wrap it around him when his hair was almost dry. "Are you hurt?" he finally allowed himself to ask, and Kurt saw the suppressed fear in his eyes when he focused on his father's face.

"No. Just a bad day." He held out his hand for another towel and attacked the last of the moisture in his hair. "I thought I was over some stuff."

"Why don't you get dressed," Burt said with that same too-careful tone, "and come upstairs, okay?"

Nodding mechanically, Kurt found himself left alone in the bathroom. He dried and combed and dressed, rubbed at his eyes, and followed him up. "I'm not hurt," he said more firmly. "Don't worry."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Burt asked. "The... the 'stuff' you're not over?"

"No," Kurt said, immediate and absolute.

"It sounds like something you need to talk about," he said, walking closer. "Just... I'm here for you. You know that, right? You can come to me with anything."

He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to ruin the memory of their reunion. "No."

Tugging him into his arms, gently like something fragile, Burt began, "Kurt—"

"Dad, please, I...." Kurt clutched his shirt in his fists. "Everyone pushes me. Please don't. Please let me count on you for that."

"Okay," Burt sighed, threading his hand through Kurt's hair and pulling him close. It was clearly killing him to not probe at whatever Kurt was hiding, but he was letting it rest. "Okay, Kurt. You can count on me. I told you I'd do whatever you needed."

That tired, still-sick feeling in him felt like the aftermath of vomiting, but he knew it was for the best. After all, being sick meant that something worse had come out. "Do you think I owe it to people to tell them what happened to me?"

"What?" Burt asked, pushing him far enough back so he could meet Kurt's eyes. He looked completely confused.

"So they'd stop doing this. Is it my... my responsibility?" Was it the responsibility of that selfish _brat_ who would have done exactly the same things in Blaine's position, and might not ever have given up his toy? Did he really owe it? Was it his duty, his burden to bear so that he might make up for what a terrible person he'd been?

"Did someone tell you that?" Burt frowned, and sighed when he nodded. "No, Kurt. It'd... yeah, that'd be one way to go about this. But you don't _have_ to do anything, okay? And you definitely don't have to turn yourself into a... a mascot, or whatever they want. You don't."

"I feel like I should do something," he sighed. Maybe that would make up for those sins.

"You've talked about writing, right? Maybe that'll be it. But you don't have to get up on camera. You do not," Burt said emphatically.

"Okay," Kurt mumbled as Burt pulled him close again. He'd find something. He'd make up for who he'd been. "Dad...."

"Movies," Burt predicted, accurately gauging that he was one again being called on to be a big, comforting pillow. And like a stuffed animal, Kurt clung to him as they watched. Memories once again ebbed, perhaps a little less sharp than they had been before breaking free, and he wondered if eventually they would dull past the chance to hurt.

 _im sorry_ , read the text from Tina when Kurt went downstairs at the end of the night.

Kurt sighed and threw his phone to the end of the bed, but reconsidered and scooped it up. _I knowing._ Groaning, he sent an immediate followup of _Know. Stupid autocorrect._ The drawbacks of the technology that gave his texts better formatting than hers. Always trade-offs. Always, for any decision.

 _i wont push_

 _We'll talk later, okay?_

 _:)_

  


* * *

"Hey," Finn said when he showed up at the front door at 8:30 the next morning.

Kurt eyed him. "Hey. Shouldn't you be at school?"

"Burt called me, asked if I could swing by the garage to pick up some stuff after practice. Since he was going to start staying home again."

Oh, really? Kurt rubbed a hand over his face. Of course. He'd made him worry. His very first full day back at work and he'd come home to find his son nearly unresponsive in a cold shower. But he'd _gone_ , Kurt thought in the next moment, confused. It wouldn't have been a surprise at all to find his father puttering around upstairs, but he had left for work.

"We talked about how he's taken off a ton of work recently, and he owns the place and they need him around. And Mom, well, her boss is getting kinda mad at her for everything she's missing. But me?" Finn grinned. "It turns out I'm totally worried about being sick. Really contagious. I shouldn't be around anyone."

"Finn," Kurt said, but let the word fall away without any follow-up but laughter. All he could think to say was, "I can't believe they let you get away with that."

"You kidding?" Finn smirked. "Mom gave me another big speech about 'stepping up' and how she's proud of me. And Burt'd never bitch about being here when you need him, but he seriously did have to spend time at the garage. And meanwhile," Finn continued cheerfully, gesturing around the empty living room, "I get the next three days off school! I still have to do my homework, but whatever, you can help me."

"That I can," Kurt agreed, but his humor fell away when Finn's did.

"Your dad was gonna start staying home because he... he said you had a bad day."

'Bad day.' The clichéd words sounded weighty and meaningful between them. Other than Tina, Finn was the only person who had any real idea what had happened during Kurt's capture. In retrospect he should have waited to have that conversation with Mercedes, but now he didn't want to spread the knowledge any further than he had to. Gesturing to the couch, Kurt sprawled on it while Finn claimed a recliner. "Tina had all these plans for me."

"Plans?"

"She thinks I need to become the face of the Angel liberation movement or something, I don't know."

Finn's face lit up. "Really? That sounds kind of badass. You should totally do... you're looking at me weird."

"By which she means," he clarified, "that I should get in front of the media and tell everyone exactly what was done to me. All of it. In detail, so they can know how bad it was and that I was still a person while it happened."

Clearly uncertain of what to say, Finn finally ventured, "That doesn't sound like it would be very fun. I mean... you'd be talking about. Well. You know."

"I do know," Kurt said hollowly. "I was having flashbacks. Believe me, I know."

"Flashbacks?" Finn repeated. "Dude, again? Because you checked out when I talked to you after those nightmares, and when Santana was talking about, you know, sex stuff out on the porch. It's kinda sounding like you have a problem. Which is okay. You are totally justified in having a problem."

Kurt raked his hands through his hair. He cared less each day about keeping it styled, not for an audience of family alone. "I kept saying 'no' and Tina kept pushing. It freaked me out."

Finn Hudson, for all that he usually carried around a genial good nature, was large and strong. His anger burned suddenly, brightly, and he sounded like a very dangerous person when he began, "Tina tried to force you to—"

"No! God, no." Kurt tried to laugh. "What, were you going to beat her up to avenge my honor?" he asked shakily, as both of them realized that Finn really didn't know what would have happened next. "The 'no' was just about doing that spokesperson thing. But it just... you all have been so careful around me. I guess I wasn't used to someone not listening."

"How bad was it?"

Kurt studied his interlaced fingers and didn't respond to Finn's quiet words. He wasn't asking about his conversation with Tina, that much was clear.

"Kurt. Come on. You're freezing up. This isn't good. This seems like serious trauma."

Soft as a creaking door, Kurt whispered, "He made me like it."

Finn opened his mouth, realized in a sweep of confusion that he didn't know what that meant, and closed it again.

"My first... first time." He'd used the right label with Tina. He couldn't bring himself to use it again. "It _hurt_ , but he kept his hands on me and I _liked_ it. How am I ever supposed to...." How was he ever supposed to be with someone? Even if he could somehow find a person to love, how could he ever stand being touched?

"He made me like it," Kurt said, barely audible even to himself. His eyes were watery when he looked up. "Would I have done the same thing? Probably."

"So would I," Finn said. "So would Rachel... so would nearly everyone on the freaking planet, okay? And I didn't mean to make everyone sound like a bunch of scary rapists you need to worry about," he said, losing some of his steam. "Uh, sorry. I just meant that... damn, stop beating yourself up. Everyone else has done it for you, you know?"

They'd read selections from _The Divine Comedy_ in his literature class the year before. He'd waded through the poetic language while most of his classmates relied on punishment summaries off Wikipedia. _Purgatorio_ entered Kurt's mind: being forced to suffer for his sins.

If he couldn't get the religious references out of his head, he might well scream.

"He wasn't scary," Kurt sighed, curling up against the couch cushions. "That's what makes this so hard."

"I don't get it."

"He was nice," Kurt mumbled into well-worn fabric. "He was a model son and student. Very polite. Restrained. The best _owner_ I could have hoped to be sold to. And even someone as _harmless_ as him...." He could only mouth 'raped me.'

Blaine had to be in the top percentile of kind individuals in the world. That much was certain from his inexplicable decision to sell the controller to Burt. And even someone kind and thoughtful had performed actions that left Kurt viewing him with nauseated terror. If that that was the _best_ the world had to hope for.... "I have to do something," Kurt said. "I just don't know what."

"Take a nap."

"What?" Kurt said, snapped out of his mood somewhat by the strange suggestion.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Finn asked. "Or was it another bad night after your bad day?" He made a knowing face at Kurt's nod. "So, curl up on the couch and get some sleep. I'll just hang out here and do some homework." He grinned. "You know, save the hard stuff for when you wake up."

"Did you _really_ sit here and listen to my dad talk about me?"

Finn's lips quirked. "You got a pedicure kit for your seventh birthday. He let you do his toes."

Trilling a short, delighted laugh, Kurt gasped, "I'd _forgotten_ , would you believe it? He...." His heart felt full at the returning memory. "He said nothing on the hands. But he let me get away with his feet because they'd be inside his work boots. Just once."

For a few more seconds he could only smile, a lopsided tugging that tried to pull away his nightmares with it. "Thanks for being there for him."

"Yeah, well," Finn shrugged.

"I have good days," Kurt promised him as he burrowed his shoulder against the cushions. He thought about reaching for a blanket but felt a wing open almost instinctively, spreading and curling around him. It was warmer than it had any right to be, like the feathers were alive, and he found himself relaxing into the sleep he'd missed.

He still woke from a shallow nap and found himself fumbling for the blanket draped across the back of the couch. Cooler weather had rolled in, and although the weather was still mild he was acclimated to the heat and had yet to alter anything but summer clothes. What was fine while awake left him unable to fall wholly asleep. He anticipated a nasty winter and he wondered if there would be much fall. Feeling the wing once again cocoon him over that blanket, Kurt fell back into sleep. That time he didn't wake for hours.

"Sorry," Finn said when Kurt yawned and sat up. "I saw you curling up like you were cold, but putting a blanket on... I would have been touching you. I mean. Wow, that sounded bad. I would have touched _that_ ," he said with a gesture toward the now-folded wing, "without asking. Which, hello: dick move."

"Got it," Kurt said, comforted by the consideration. "Just draping a blanket would have been fine. For the future. But thank you."

"Got it," Finn said in return. "Can we do my hard homework now?"

After a short bathroom trip to brush his teeth and wash away the lingering sleep of his nap, Kurt settled into a chair at the dining table and looked at the presented assignments. For all that Finn had promised 'only the hard stuff,' they wound up backtracking and redoing almost everything Kurt saw.

"The Trail of Tears is not 'a big river,'" Kurt muttered as he erased the scribbled words on the page. "Maybe this was a bad idea; you should be in class today." Finn was staring at his hands, Kurt realized. "What?" he asked with some irritation. "Are you still thinking about my finger?"

"No! Well. Now that you mention it, yeah, and...." Finn frowned. "You can't threaten to hurt yourself to boss me around, okay? That wasn't fair."

Dismissively, Kurt waved the statement away like Finn wasn't serious.

He was. "I'm not kidding. I don't care if it heals or not. If our parents are getting married, if this is _family_ for real? Then you can't expect me not to care if you're getting _freaking body parts_ chopped off, and it's super unfair to manipulate me with that."

"Fine, fine." The pat answer didn't soothe Finn's irritation, and Kurt said more sincerely, "I won't."

"The finger freaked me out," Finn said, and made a face at Kurt when he made it clear just how obvious Finn had been with that reaction. "And then you burning your hand, that freaked me out. When I saw all that, I was like, 'What the fuck is Kurt _doing?!_ '"

"I won't be doing that again," Kurt said. "It hurt."

Like he hadn't said anything, Finn said, "But then when you did that thing with the needle downstairs...."

When he didn't continue, Kurt eventually prompted, "Yes?"

"I saw the blood before up here, when you were getting hurt. That was so _much_ that I just freaked out. All I could think was that you were different and hurting yourself and that it was scary and wrong. But with one drop at a time, all I could think was...." He laughed a little. "They're totally going to revoke my dude card for this."

"For what?" Kurt asked softly.

"It was beautiful."

Barely able to breathe, lest the moment crack, Kurt only looked at him until he thought he had a handle on himself. Someone who knew him as _him_ had seen the biggest changes and accepted them. Loved them, even. "Stay here," Kurt said softly as he stood.

Finn tensed as Kurt returned with a small knife. "You promised me that you wouldn't."

Studying the blade as he turned it over in his hands, Kurt said, "Someone cut me. Badly. They wanted to see my blood. Afterward I held up my wrists to Blaine, expecting him to slice them open for more." At Finn's soft question of whether he did, Kurt shook his head. The hand holding his knife shook with it. "No. That was when he...." His eyes closed and he could feel the knife shake more violently until it was plucked from his hand. Forcing his hands flat against the table, Kurt took a deep breath, exhaled it, and opened his eyes. "That was when he raped me," he said bluntly, making himself use the word.

"Give me the knife," Kurt finally said, holding out his hand. Finn only held it more firmly. "I can't... Finn, things keep setting me off. At least let me associate them with something good as well, so I have the _hope_ of moving on. Please."

"Are you going to hurt yourself?" Finn asked as his knuckles went white around the handle.

"I'm going to cut open my palm. Gently. It won't be bad. You're going to look at it. You're going to see my blood and think it's 'beautiful,' instead of it meaning that I'm a science experiment. And even though you'll stare at my blood, nothing bad will happen after that. Because I'm home and I can trust you." He'd chosen the knife that looked the most like the one that boy used.

"This seems really unhealthy," Finn said, but turned over the knife like he hated doing it.

"My life has been really unhealthy," Kurt retorted. "Let me at least try something new." The tremors in his hand had faded, and it was with a single smooth stroke that he opened a bloody line. Gold spilled into the hollow of his palm and he presented a handful of light to Finn.

"Oh my God," Finn said as he stared. He barely managed to blink. He stared as the blood dripped off the side but vanished before it landed, as the pool grew slowly smaller, and as it faded away and revealed Kurt's unmarked palm. He stared like those boys had. Like they had before the party ended, and Kurt was....

" _God_ ," Finn said again, hands moving uselessly. "That's... I don't want to see it again, because you have to hurt yourself first. But just...." He laughed and, to Kurt's surprise, had to wipe at one eye. "Shit. I didn't even do this when I saw Santana naked, you know?"

Kurt barked out a short, surprised laugh, and the nerves and memories of the moment faded. "Well, I would _hope not!_ I'm sure she was going for a pretty different reaction, right?"

"Guess so," Finn said, and he managed to laugh when Kurt did. "How're you doing?"

Carefully setting down the knife, Kurt studied it. "I'm doing okay," he concluded. "It worked. Kind of. I started flashing back, and then you said something and I snapped out of it. And now I'm fine."

"Oh. Well, good." Finn studied his fingers where they knotted together on top of his homework. "Can I... you already showed me once, but can I just sit and look at them? I won't touch."

Kurt glanced at the window. Cool but sunny, and with the afternoon sun slanting into the back porch. "Let's go back there," he said, gesturing with his head toward the door. "The feathers really catch the sun. Or so I hear."

They spent the rest of the afternoon there, sprawled comfortably on blankets they took out to cushion the deck. "It feels good to be outside," Kurt admitted as they settled in. "I've been forced into being a Garbo-level recluse, and I just don't know if I can pull that off." Finn was behind him, he processed. If he wanted, Finn could reach out and touch the wings. Kurt wouldn't be able to do a thing except moan until he removed his hands.

Finn never touched him, and after a minute Kurt was able to relax. Trust. Safety. Home.

Occasionally Kurt looked back from his laptop screen full of social justice campaigns. (Tina had sent him the links, with only the commentary that he could read if he wanted to and that she would never mention them again.) He only looked away when it grew to be too much. Sometimes Finn was bent over his homework. Other times he was staring at the wings with an expression of quiet wonder, one that became an easy grin when he saw Kurt had turned.

"Thanks," Finn said simply when they heard the garage door rising.

"Sure," Kurt said, digging through his emotions like sand and waiting for the rocks or broken glass. It stayed smooth, clean and safe, and he smiled. Finn had been there for two hours. He could have reached out, but he didn't. Not once.

He'd completely forgotten about that childhood pedicure kit. He wondered how many sorrowful hours it took before that story was shared.

This felt like _family_ , warm and secure, baptized in his father's tears. Anything that had existed before that summer was washed away.

"Hey," Burt said when he finally found them out on the porch. "Didn't expect to see you outside. How'd things go today?"

"Good," Kurt said, realizing the knife was still on the table. He hadn't thought about it at all since the cut. "Things are good."

  


* * *

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Finn said without preamble as he poked his head into the living room the next afternoon.

Kurt looked up from the first round of history books he'd ordered from Amazon. He was determined to keep educating himself, but he'd take a pleasant distraction away from even self-directed work. It felt like he was getting away with something. "Sure."

Finn glanced at the clock and nodded carefully. One twelve. "Okay, lots of time until someone comes home."

"Finn," Kurt asked slowly and carefully, "what is it?"

"I want to ask you this. I mean really _ask_ you, and you can feel free to say no. Because it sounds like people haven't been listening when you said it before, and that's awful and wrong and I don't want to be like them, okay?"

"Um. I don't know that I want you to ask me anything, now," Kurt said.

"Okay," Finn said in an instant and turned to leave.

"Finn," Kurt groaned. "Stop." That instant compliance did put his nerves somewhat at ease, even if the discussion topic promised to be unpleasant. "Ask, whatever it is."

"But you just said...." Finn looked almost pained by his confusion as Kurt raised his eyebrows insistently. "Okay. Again, you can say no. I just wanted to ask ifmurmblemuffle."

Squinting, like that would somehow amplify Finn's mumbling, Kurt leaned closer. "What?" The words still tumbled out in a mess, but Kurt could at least make them out. He realized, with utter confusion, that Finn was asking him if he could touch his wings.

"Never mind, it was stupid," Finn said when Kurt stared at him.

"Finn," Kurt said slowly, "we... had this conversation before. I mean, about how they feel."

"I know." Finn gnawed at his lower lip, tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, and for a few moments seemed to be composed entirely of nervous tics. "You said they made you feel good. And before that... during that really bad night... you said that the guy could make you say yes. That he'd just keep going."

His hands were shaking again, Kurt realized. He clutched his thighs and nodded silently to give Finn the answer he wanted.

"And yesterday you talked about how you wanted to replace bad memories."

"Finn, I know you want to touch them, but...." Mercedes did, all those people _fantasizing_ about him did. Eventually he'd relent into letting himself be petted like a cat; he'd get exhausted saying no. But not yet. "I don't know if I'm ready."

"It's not about me. I swear. All last night I was thinking about how you cut your hand open. You _cut your hand open_ to try and help yourself, because of how much people hurt you before. And these feel good, but what happened was like the worst thing ever." Finn looked frustrated as he tried to explain himself. "That's not right. If they feel good, then it seems like you should be able to, you know, _feel_ it. With it being something you want."

"I don't understand," Kurt finally said. He could remember a conversation in the basement with crystal clarity. Erogenous zones. Finn asking him to check for his own. Seeing the boy shudder with pleasure. And now _this?_

He didn't know what was going on.

"I've seen you keep everyone away from them. And your life pretty much sucks now, you know? I mean, I'm sorry. But it does. I just want to help."

"No, Finn, I...." Kurt closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Finn's face when he pointed out, "If you touch them, I'll _react._ "

"I know. What you said, that he made you like it... that's like the worst thing I've ever heard in my life." Finn sounded secure in what he offered, even as he worried over that described moment. "And you really need to replace those memories."

Heart pounding in his ears, Kurt finally whispered for them to go downstairs. Each step landed on the staircase like the drums of an army. "Finn...." he said, turning to him, as the moment seemed ready. "You don't have to do this."

That changed, awed look was still behind Finn's eyes when he replied, "I know." It was the look he'd been wearing ever since he saw the blood from the needle.

It took nearly a minute before Kurt could relax and remind himself of where he was, who was with him, and how _safe_ it was. He knew all that intellectually, but he had to accept that safety. This had to be a pure and clean moment. That was the goal of making new memories, after all. He had to trust Finn, and he had to want this with more than just his body. "Okay," he finally said and tried not to change the pattern of his breathing as Finn walked behind him.

Gentle, large hands clasped around the base of one wing and stroked slowly, carefully upward. Pleasure jolted to the base of Kurt's spine. Its warmth spread down his legs, to his groin, as a soft reassurance to his heart.

That pleasure wasn't like simple masturbation, though the outcome looked much the same. He felt alive when he was touched, far beyond any other moment and far beyond anything a normal human could process. The world seemed to sing around him as it held life and joy and a thousand wonderful things that went too often unnoticed. Love and growth and every good thing in the world fired through his veins. It wasn't about sex, though new life came from it and so it was wrapped up in that pleasure. It was about love.

Finn's stroke followed the entire curve of the wing before it released, and Kurt's knees wobbled by the end of it. He was only distantly aware of how loudly he was moaning.

"Again?" Finn asked.

He _asked._

Kurt nodded, falling into the comfort of their trust. His body sung more with that trust, like whatever strange magic ran through his blood was resonating with it. Every inch of his skin seemed to tingle.

The pleasure was too much. He shouldn't be standing up, Kurt realized as his knees went weak. They might give out on him. Then he would fall to the floor. A boy would follow him down and—

"Stop," Kurt gasped as Finn's hands left him and the moans died on his lips. He could feel his erection straining against the material of his jeans, and his head was light and dizzy from the sensations Finn had caused.

Finn backed away and circled around so that Kurt could see where he stood. His hands were raised like he was proving he was unarmed.

He hadn't hesitated. Not even a moment.

"Thank you," Kurt said just above a whisper.

"It was only like two times," Finn said with confusion.

"I know. And you stopped."

Finn didn't seem to understand, but he matched Kurt's smile.


	5. Chapter 5

"I got a letter," Burt said that evening. "From the ACLU."

Kurt sat up, frowning. The earlier scene with Finn in the basement was forgotten. What on earth did his father mean by that?

"Not addressed to me. One of your friends dropped it by the garage, saying she had put out feelers. It sounds like that group has been trying to fight back any laws that say it's okay to own... you know. People like you. But the laws are airtight." Burt smiled a little as he reread the letter. "When they heard someone was back with his family, though... they want to offer free legal counsel."

He didn't understand, and Kurt said as much.

"All those laws that say you're... God, I hate this. That say you're _property._ " Burt flicked a finger against the edge of the paper. "All the people who paid millions for someone like you, no one would dare mess with 'em. Me, though... what happens if you're taken by someone who could buy and sell me a thousand times over?"

Kurt hadn't even thought of that, though Burt had clearly worried over the idea. Celebrities effectively paid their way out of jail all the time. A billionaire could steal him and there was a very good chance that a world-class legal team could somehow disprove his father's ownership, or challenge the sale, or... oh _God._

"The ACLU says that if the laws are so solid, then they'll make sure they work for me, too. No one's taking you away. If someone tries, they won't be able to buy their way out of things with a good lawyer. Because they'll give me their best team." Burt laughed a little and scratched the back of his head. "I never thought much of these guys before," he admitted.

"It was Rachel, wasn't it?" Kurt asked.

"Huh?"

"The person who dropped the letter by the garage. It was Rachel who contacted the ACLU, right?"

Burt frowned in thought. "I don't know all your friends, but... she had on this sweater with a unicorn." He sounded embarrassed to admit that he'd noticed, but that would be a very memorable fashion choice for anyone over the age of seven. "So, are you okay with me getting in touch with them?"

"Sure. Absolutely." Kurt smiled, and not only with the relief of realizing a nation-wide organization had just thrown its weight around like a bodyguard to keep their family together.

He saw someone else's future change before his eyes.

Rachel Berry was going to be a holy terror in the courtroom.

"Hey," he said into his phone shortly after that. Forced to choose between the basement or the porch for privacy, he'd surprised himself by stepping into the fresh air. The mastiff next door scratched uselessly at the fence; Kurt ignored him.

"Kurt," Rachel said like she couldn't find a single other word on which to stand.

"Thanks. That was a good idea, contacting the ACLU. I wouldn't have thought of it, and I should have."

"Well, you have to think about a lot of things, now. Things you shouldn't have to. It's not...." She was silent for a while, long enough that he checked the phone to make sure the call hadn't dropped. "It's not fair."

It completely was and it completely wasn't. "Yes, well." That was really the only answer he had to that, and instead he found himself changing the topic to ask, "Why aren't you singing?"

"What?"

"Finn says you're just swaying in the back. I know that you might not want to be a _star_ any more. I doubt I would, were I in... in your place," he said, wavering a little at the imagined picture of him in that club and Rachel home with a collar and wings. "It says good things about you that you _don't_ want to be a star, not with what the world is like. But you need to sing. It's who you are."

"I miss last year," was the only response she made before dropping off into another long silence. Finally she asked, "Have you? Been singing, I mean?"

He hadn't. He hadn't since he'd been forced by his owner. Before that, the sight of the very first tiny feathers had silenced him. In hiding, he felt like any noise might draw attention. Now, he just....

Religious metaphors kept pounding at him, just like the judgment of his supposed sins had been beating on him ever since he knew who he was. The only thing worse was the damned 'bird in a cage' image, Kurt thought as he looked around the slats and screen lining the porch. At least the religious comparisons still called him human. "No," he answered.

"Oh. I've been talking to Tina." Kurt froze, but relaxed when Rachel continued, "We want to set up a group or something at school. Social awareness, trying to push for change, that sort of thing. Mercedes thinks it sounds very interesting, but she said we should get your feedback before we did anything."

"A group?" Kurt asked, frowning a little. "That's a _thing_ like... like Gay-Straight Alliances, that you can just form a chapter of in your school?"

"Well, no," Rachel said quietly. "This would be the first."

"Oh." That made sense, he supposed. Scratching out some figures on the dusty slats, Kurt considered matters. Given America's population as part of the world, and the overall number of Angels, only something like two hundred to two-fifty would have been found within its borders over fifty years' time. Most—perhaps every single one but him—would have vanished before their friends became high schoolers with idealism to prove. Then he realized Rachel was asking him something and tried to catch up.

"...They both assumed you'd do it, but I thought you wouldn't."

"What? I'm sorry, my mind wandered."

"That'd you'd... take pictures, come talk to people, and that sort of thing."

Kurt closed his eyes tiredly. Mercedes, the friend who'd thought she just needed to pull him out into the sun and that people would be happy that he'd returned. Tina, the friend who'd tried to push him into a spokesperson role and must think that the scope was what bothered him, not the job itself. And Rachel... "You thought I wouldn't?"

She didn't say anything for a while. "They're not like us, Kurt. They want that applause, but they don't _need_ it. I hope you don't find this offensive, but I tried to put myself in your place. I wouldn't... I don't know if I _could_ deal with the knowledge that people were finally seeing my face because of what I'd become, and that they were only seeing the changes and not me."

"You're right," he admitted. "I don't want to be 'that thing.' That's... that's what I've tried to fight off being all my life. I've tried to prove that I'm a person while everyone says I'm not. I can't give up and agree with everyone. I just can't."

"I thought so," Rachel said.

"I'm thinking of writing, though," he eventually offered. "Maybe I could do that." They'd see words, not him, and if they judged the words as coming from a thing then he wouldn't be there to see it.

"That could be good," she agreed.

"Rachel, I... you have to talk to Finn."

"No," she said instantly. Speaking over him when he tried to argue, she continued, "No. I need to focus on this. Not just for you, as selfish as that makes me, but for myself. And Finn needs to focus on you. You know he considers himself a leader. We all knew you were nowhere to be found and he and his mother never pushed hard enough to even come close to catching on. He hated himself for so easily thinking the worst of your father's reasons for lying when something huge was happening."

"He didn't say that," Kurt murmured. "He's just talked about how he felt like he needed to 'step up,' how this was supposed to be family." That level of guilt would explain why he'd touched his wings, he amended somewhat sadly. It took that level of regret to outweigh his demonstrated aversion to contact.

"No one really enjoys facing up to what they were like," Rachel pointed out.

"No we don't. I... look. I'll see if I feel up to writing anything. I can't promise that I will. And Rachel? Thanks for understanding."

"I know you must be lonely," she said very quietly. "This is what I can do to help. Because... I'm sorry. I just can't see you. I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Thanks for understanding, then."

* * *

"You don't have to do this, Finn," Kurt said the next morning when Finn settled next to him on the couch and looked at him expectantly. "Yesterday helped, thank you. And then I got some reassuring news about the ACLU, things are more secure than I knew I even had to be concerned about, and you don't have to force yourself to touch me."

"Wait. Wait, what?" Finn asked, shaking his head. "Force myself?"

"Yesterday you...." Kurt's voice dropped, even though they were alone in the house. "You have to have seen how I was reacting. And believe me, it's perfectly clear that _that_ is a problem for you."

"But it's _not_ ," Finn said with some irritation. "Look, will you just let me help? If you want me to, of course. This isn't about me wanting to touch them, this is about you wanting it. Because I'm betting it's like what you told me with my ear, that touching them yourself doesn't do anything?"

For a demonstration, Kurt reached over his shoulder and squeezed. He could feel the compression of feathers around flesh and bone. It shot into the part of his mind that had been rewritten for that new body part, but was awareness and nothing more. "Right."

"I swear I'm not pushing. You can say no if you want to. But I just...." Finn smirked a little, even as he clearly tried to force it back. "You were making some noises that I didn't know were physically possible, so I'm kinda thinking that felt _really_ good."

Cheeks hot, Kurt mumbled that yes, it did.

"Kinda weird to say I'm jealous, but...." Finn tilted his head. "Is it like, you know. Jerking off?"

If his cheeks had burned before, they felt ready to crumble to ash after that. "No," Kurt said as calmly as he could. "It's actually not like that at all. It's different. And much better," he added with a little more intensity than intended.

"Much?" Finn repeated, sounding somewhat awed at the concept. "What's it like?"

"It's...." Kurt closed his eyes, as much to recall the sensation as to block Finn's face during their conversation. "When you... jerk off, you can still feel guilt or sadness or pain or any other bad thing. It's physical. And there's that _need_ , but then you, well, finish and you're done."

"Yeah, and it starts _hurting_ ," Finn agreed.

Slitting his eyes open just enough to take in Finn's bewildering openness about his post-orgasm sensitivity, Kurt shakily continued, "This is... it feels good emotionally. My body just comes along for the ride."

Finn tilted his head. "So, you can't feel bad at all during it? That's kind of nice."

Kurt began to answer that he wished it were that easy, but then he processed that a warm hand was around his own. "What?" he asked, confused, as Finn gently pushed Kurt's hand back down to his side.

"You started picking at your collar again and zoning out." Finn's eyes were shadowed. "Like you were going to flash back again. Yeah, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Of course you could feel bad along with the good feelings. You felt bad when he... he made you like it."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed in a tiny voice. He was hyper-aware of the world around him as he tried to focus on the here and now, making a valiant effort to fight off any flashbacks as they threatened arrival. Speaking a bit louder than he intended, as it helped get the words out, he continued, "When it wasn't consensual, then I'd be conscious of that during the entire thing. And it was treated as purely sexual and he would stop as soon as I... well. And it was humiliating," he said, growing quieter again with each word. "Violating."

"But it was okay yesterday, right? Before you freaked and had me stop?"

"It was perfect," Kurt said with faint awe. "It was the best I'd ever felt in my life. Without that fear and humiliation, just the feeling itself... everything bad was stripped away."

"Do you want to do it again?"

"Okay," Kurt breathed.

He stretched out on his bed that time, remembering the flashbacks he'd had when his knees wobbled. Beyond practicalities, though, it was a test. If Finn was going to have any problems about this, the knowledge that Kurt would soon be writhing against his _bed_ would certainly spark them. He didn't hesitate. With more careful checks for consent, his hands landed on the wings and began to stroke with gentle affection.

The pleasure, the _trust_ , of the day before returned in an instant. Kurt wailed out his pleasure and found himself rutting against his mattress, but the momentary flash of concern faded into his bliss when Finn did nothing but continue. Tiny breaks in the pleasure popped up now and then, each one punctuated with a request to tell Finn that he still wanted this. Yes, yes, _yes_ , Kurt moaned every time, and soon the requests faded.

He wasn't comfortable with his body any more, and so he hadn't touched himself. The last time he'd orgasmed had been against his will and a month earlier. Kurt came hard, gasping out a pure note that sounded like a song, and realized in his haze of pleasure that Finn hadn't stopped. It took several more strokes before he did, and Kurt distantly realized that he was asking him something.

"Do you not get all sore? Want me to keep going?"

The wings didn't get hyper-sensitive and painful, because they weren't about sexual pleasure. That was nothing more than a happy side-effect. Kurt nodded and was soon writhing against his bed while only distantly aware of the cooling spot in his jeans. He was happy. He felt trust and love. When he grew hard again, and came with less intensity than before, it was a footnote to what Finn was making him feel.

"Want me to keep going?" Finn asked after that second orgasm.

"I'm kind of tired," Kurt said honestly, but with a goofy, broad smile against his sheets. Endorphins intoxicated him.

"Okay," Finn said brightly, and then actually ruffled his hair with affection. "I, uh, bet you'll want to shower."

"And change my pants," Kurt mumbled into his mattress. "Thanks?"

"Any time," Finn said before he was replaced with the sound of feet on the staircase.

Kurt couldn't find it in himself to move for nearly half an hour. He was that blissfully drugged by the moment, and sleep kept trying to claim him. Eventually, a smile still on his face, he pushed himself up and went to clean away the mess in his jeans.

When he was being touched, he felt good. When he was being touched and he _wanted_ it, Kurt actually felt happy. Left alone with his own mind as he showered, the pessimism that had become his life began to seep back in.

Finn was captivated by his blood like a moth to a flame. Situations that would have repelled him before were being sought out by the boy. What was going _on_ , Kurt wondered.

He sketched loose pictures with his fingertip on the bathroom counter as he dried. Maybe Finn's views of their interactions had changed during his forced departure. It was possible. Not knowing what you had until it was gone was a terribly common trope. But....

If Kurt were presented with a completely human girl, he'd want nothing with her but to talk. Picturing a naked girl of his own kind didn't jolt him like an imagined boy, but it was appealing and something that was inside the realm of imagined possibility. When they'd talked in the choir room about their plans for owning an Angel, the sex of the trophy didn't matter. People who'd never been attracted to him before were apparently unable to keep their hands out of their pants over his new form.

Angels had never been formally studied. That oversight was what had turned him into his own research lab, where he brought down a cleaver on his own hand to watch what happened next.

Pheromones, maybe? Some sort of strange sexual telepathy. A high-pitched noise he didn't realize he was making that drilled directly into people's minds. It could be any of those things, for all he knew, stealing away all sense of propriety around him. Mercedes hadn't displayed it, but she'd never been one to talk about Angels like that; the same with Tina.

Santana and Brittany wanted one, and they were attracted to him. Rachel had barely been exposed to him before she fled from her guilt.

Kurt had wanted an Angel, and he was attracted even to females.

Finn had wanted one, and he stroked Kurt to orgasm.

Maybe there was some sort of susceptibility, Kurt mused. Some sort of awful, consent-stealing susceptibility where his mere presence was enough to override what people would say and do on their own. He hated the idea even as he thought of it. It was victim-blaming distilled down to his core: Angels were captured and raped because they just _made_ people want it so badly.

"Ugh," he muttered, hating himself along with the idea. He shouldn't think such things. He had to prove himself wrong.

Two people had yet to contact him. He still couldn't explain Artie, but he knew why Puck hadn't. Puck knew that he'd described every possible sexual act against what they all now recognized as unwilling victims. Puck would only contact Kurt if Kurt made the first move.

Mouth set in a determined line, Kurt dialed his phone.

* * *

"Hey," Puck said awkwardly as he stood at the front door after school.

"Hey," Kurt said back. He'd asked Finn to run to the store for him. His very specific grocery list would keep him busy for some time.

"Look, I... this is...." Puck shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was gonna break you out."

"I know," Kurt said, gesturing toward the couch. "Come on, I try to keep the front door closed."

"So, hey," Puck said as he made a show of looking around. "This is your house. I mean, the inside. Nice place."

Because he'd seen the roof before, right. "We're selling," Kurt said. He watched Puck carefully with each step he took, to see if the boy would start lusting after him with exposure to whatever he might be throwing off. "To find a place more comfortable for four people, one less reliant on basement living... but thank you."

"Oh, right." Puck still gave off all the ill ease of a little boy forced into a formal party. "When's the wedding?"

"Soon. We think. It's not going to be a big deal," he shrugged as he took a seat on the armrest. "I mentioned that they could just leave me out of the whole thing, because otherwise no one would have their eyes on the bride, and everyone was horrified. So instead, some little back yard ceremony with a few friends. Hardly worth mentioning."

"Huh," Puck said. His hands tapped a rhythm on his knees as it became painfully aware how little they were used to talking about anything but the most obvious and trivial of matters. "You should invite us. I mean, it's like a Glee wedding."

"Maybe," Kurt shrugged.

"So... how was, you know, everything?"

"Not as bad as it could have been."

"Yeah," Puck said, still looking around the room. "That's what Finn said. Hey, so... why don't you just take that collar off?"

"Then I'd get captured again, and sold to someone else," Kurt pointed out. "My dad owns this. If you're uncollared, you're up for grabs. Besides, it'll have to be a surgical removal... one day. I couldn't just 'take it off' without pulling out part of my spine in the process."

Puck looked appropriately horrified at that. "Gross, dude. I didn't realize it...."

With one finger, Kurt lightly tapped the back of his collar. "It's what happens when they capture you. The first thing that happens is a big piece of metal being driven into your spinal column."

"Oh," Puck said in the smallest voice Kurt had ever heard from him.

This was getting far too serious for the relationship they had, and far too quickly. Determined to pull it out of its dive, Kurt said brightly, "But on the upside, I never even have to touch my moisturizers any more and I can still be set for _life._ Quite a timesaver, really." Of course, he had nothing but time in front of him.

"Well, there's something," Puck agreed, clearly glad for the lighter tone. "On the downside, you'll look young for, like, ever."

"Most people would call that a good thing," Kurt pointed out.

"Most people could kinda-sorta pull off using a fake ID, if you know what I mean," Puck shot back, grinning. "Welcome to a hundred years of being sober."

"My dad'd get it for me," he snorted. "Besides, I don't like alcohol."

Clearly reveling in the easy dynamic, Puck slung his arm back over the couch. "Scarred by the mental image of your guts on Pillsbury's shoes, huh?"

"More like 'we tried to get me drunk before my dad tried to cut off my wings, but now it makes me so dizzy and sick that we had to put it off another day,'" Kurt retorted. But the moment was gone. Puck's expression dropped at the mention of cutting off the wings, and he kept looking at them like he was picturing the bloody mess that attempt must have been.

Well, then. The two of them had never been destined for a long, serious talk. It had been long enough to test his theory, and he might as well put Puck to the test for which he'd been called. Kurt took a deep breath, balled his fists at his sides, and asked, "Puck, do you want to have sex with me?"

Eyebrows shot up and then dipped in what might be anger, disgust, or both. But then Puck's expression smoothed and he seemed to really consider the question. "You seriously offering?" he finally replied.

Ew, Kurt couldn't help but think. "It only needs a yes or no answer."

"Well," Puck said, studying him, "give me a second." He looked Kurt over from head to toe, but then his gaze snapped back up to his shoulders and he grinned. "Yeah, let's go for it."

"Oh my God," Kurt muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just say yes or no. Do you feel some... inexplicable urge to have your wicked way with me?"

"Sure, dude. I'd be the coolest guy in town if I nailed an Angel, right?" Puck said with what was clearly perfect logic to him. "Strip down, hurry up. I do not want to piss off your dad if he walks in."

Seriously, ew. "Thanks for the feedback, Puck," Kurt said dryly. "I got all the information I needed. No inexplicable urges, got it." They stared at each other for long enough that Puck seemed to clue in, and Kurt confirmed, "We're not doing it."

"But...." Puck looked frustrated and beyond confused. "Why did you _ask?_ "

"I was just wondering," Kurt said honestly. "Look, I'm fine, I'm recovering, and now we've seen each other. That hurdle has been cleared. Thank you for stopping by, and I understand if you'd prefer to leave."

He left muttering that he understood when girls did it, but a guy shouldn't be a cocktease. _Karma._

Frowning, Kurt sat and thought that over. Puck, who'd explicitly told them what he would do with an Angel both female and male, had treated him like himself. Puck, with the sex drive of the rest of the club put together, had to think about it when offered.

He would have to text Puck an apology, Kurt realized. That had been a little manipulative. Still....

Puck had clearly been himself around Kurt. If they'd gone through with that encounter, it would have been consensual on both sides.

Kurt sat there, very still, until he eventually heard the garage door rise. "Hey," Finn said.

Oh, this was stupid. This was stupid and foolish and absolutely nothing he should be doing, but... as he smiled, Kurt felt his heart once again began to beat in that painful way. He wasn't going to say anything. He was barely going to hope. But he would say yes, and he would enjoy. "Hey," he said lightly. "Puck stopped by. We caught up."

"That's good," Finn said as he began putting away the groceries. "I was thinking, since you've mentioned a couple of times that I've stopped you from flashing back... maybe I could stay over here more while we're waiting for the house to sell?"

"Okay," Kurt said.

He knew the rush from the wings was temporary, and that the reality and pain of the world still lingered as a threat. But oh, while it lasted... he'd let himself enjoy it.

* * *

Finn's strange acceptance was a little difficult to continue over the weekend, but the time was still filled with far more positives than negatives. A few irritations—bumping into the shower walls, trying to write and being faced with a terrible block, having to ask Burt to take back the neighbor's dog when it dug under the fence—were nothing compared to a general sense of happiness.

"No, it's cool," Finn said when they talked about putting a second bed in the basement. "We've gotta keep the house spotless for the realtor, and it's really obnoxious. This'd be way easier."

A little unsure of what else to do, Kurt only smiled.

They spent Sunday moving in the Hudsons, at least partially. The large furniture was left in the house, as were many of their belongings, but the basics of life began their migration. Burt and Finn packed and delivered while Carole and Kurt began integrating the boxes into their newly shared home. With an agreement not to let the other two know, they also began clearing out junk from the Hummel house. After all, that house would also be put up for sale. Better to only pack what was really needed.

Exhausted at the end of that long weekend, Kurt collapsed onto his bed and groaned. "I need to apologize to Puck," he remembered sheepishly and dug for his phone, but realized too late that someone was now around to hear that.

"Apologize? To Puck?" Finn frowned. Now that Kurt knew he'd felt guilty and like he'd failed, that desire to prove himself as strong and reliable appeared in a rush. "Why? What'd you do? Did he do anything?"

"Calm down," Kurt said as he texted a short apology and hoped it would be accepted. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"Did he talk about sex? Because you freeze up when people talk about it, and if I wasn't here to break you out of a flashback then—"

"Finn!" Kurt said too-brightly. "I'm really okay, but you know what? My muscles are _so_ sore after today that I'd love to go stretch them." A complete lie, of course, but Finn was already moving toward him when he clarified, "You wanted to see me fly, right?"

That did it. Any worry from Finn vanished, wiped away by surprised delight, and he nearly pushed Kurt up the stairs. "Mom!" he shouted, because the suggestion was apparently turning into an _event_. "Come watch Kurt!"

Their parents appeared, bemused, as Finn explained what Kurt had offered. He'd made it too early, Kurt thought with a grimace as he looked at the window. It was dusk. Part of the sky was salmon and gold, still, highlighting the clouds that clustered around the vanishing sun.

"Well hey," Burt said, pleased. "Good timing. Pretty dark, but I can still see you so I don't need to worry. Right?"

"Right," Kurt said with a laugh and tried to pretend he'd planned it that way.

It still felt blissful, he thought as he arced into the sky. The fading sunlight seemed close enough to touch, and suddenly he _did_ want to touch it. He belonged in the sun, not hiding in the house until it became too dark to be seen. Those great white wings should look like clouds against a blue sky. His body sang again, like the blood in his veins was resonating with the fading day. Sunlight called sunlight.

The stars were beautiful, he admitted as he turned to that half of the sky. Quiet, soft, gentle. Indistinct.

He turned back to the day, feeling his body quiet as the sunlight faded, and reached out his hands like he could somehow hold on to it. He'd thought his audience of stars was what he wanted, but no. Kurt wanted to burn like the sun.

He'd gone very high, he realized as the light dimmed enough for his attention to return to earth. He was at least a thousand feet up; if any calls sounded for him he wouldn't be able to hear. With one last, longing glance toward the fading western light, Kurt began a descent like a leaf on the wind.

All the neighbors were watching, he saw as he approached. They were staring from their backyards like they were witnessing a miracle. Children pointed while parents explained.

No, Kurt thought as his foot landed lightly on the ground and his family clustered around him to marvel.

He wouldn't be flying during the day.

* * *

The dynamic was even easier than they'd expected, smoothed and strengthened by the summer of grieving. Kurt found it in him to smile when Finn described the big production they were going to make of Walk This Way at a school assembly. It did sound fun, even if he wouldn't get to play a part in it.

The annual Sound of Music sing-a-long was on its way soon after that performance, Kurt sighed. That was why it was so hard to force his happiness for Finn. He'd gotten used to the idea of no longer being in his choir, but this was a fresh loss.

But it was fine. He was doing writing exercises he found online. Mercedes stayed over one night and had no end of giggling when they managed to pin Finn down for a clay facemask. Burt, as promised, began to teach Finn the ins-and-outs of engine repairs and oil changes.

That was when everything went wrong.

There was a crash from the garage, and a scream. Kurt and Carole stared at each other and then bolted for the door. A jack had collapsed, sending the car onto Finn's leg. Burt was trying to move it off him with the strength granted by adrenaline, and the attempt looked like a slow success, but it didn't match the speed at which a pool of blood was forming under the car.

"Call 911!" Kurt yelled as he tried to help, but gasped as each movement of pressure only let the blow flow more quickly. "Dad, no!" From his angle Burt couldn't tell that moving the car would let Finn bleed to death and so he was pushing at it with all his might.

Through the door Carole's voice echoed on the phone. Burt's panicked promises that everything would be all right drowned out his son's warnings. Finn... Finn was staring at Kurt, frightened and young and alone as he felt his lifeblood drain out of him.

If only that blood inside Finn healed him, Kurt thought with tears in his eyes as he clasped Finn's hand in his and tried to ease the worst of his fear. If only... he jolted, dropped Finn's hand, and scrambled awkwardly across the garage floor in search of absolutely anything useful.

When his right hand closed around a screwdriver, Kurt slid back across the floor to Finn, raised the tool like a weapon, and drove it through his left palm so hard that it stood free through the other side. Hissing with pain, he worked the handle in a circle, shoving apart flesh, bone, and tendon so the wound would stay open. Blood flowed freely from that hand as he clasped Finn's injury. Gold streamed into Finn's flesh, down the sides of his leg, and onto the concrete before it vanished into nothing. It had to be enough, Kurt hoped desperately as he watched his hand heal. It had to be touching Finn long enough to help before it vanished. That blood wouldn't let him die even of a broken neck, it _had_ to be enough.

When the crimson blood slowed, Kurt didn't know whether to cry in joy or fear; Finn could simply be running out. But then he could see flesh knitting, healing before his eyes, and Kurt barely had enough sense to go back to helping his father move the car so the injury would be free to close.

"What happened?" Finn gasped when he was safe. A pool of blood was still on the floor below him and his pants were still torn and stained, but his leg was whole. It was bruised, covered in a map of blue and purple, but it was nothing compared to what had been. "Kurt, what did you do?"

With that question the reality of his actions struck him and Kurt nearly collapsed to the floor. His right hand massaged his left gently; the hole was gone but it would be tender for a while yet. Even in his panic he could recall the sensation of the screwdriver shoving apart delicate bones. He managed to sit rather than fall, but it was difficult to stay upright. "Are you okay?"

"I'm... yeah, I'm fine," Finn marveled, feeling his leg and wincing at the bruises. "I'm fine."

"Kurt?" he heard his father ask as Carole rushed in to promise that the ambulance was on its way, but both their voices died as they stared at Finn pushing himself to his feet.

"I'm going to go downstairs," Kurt said shakily. "Before they come. It's easier to just not explain me to people."

His feet stumbled over each other as he made his way down the stairs. He'd just ripped open his own hand with a screwdriver, Kurt processed more with each step, and it had _hurt._ The one positive was that there was nothing left physically but a dull throb. Even that would soon fade. The memories of shredding his own hand would stay with him for some time to come, though; of that he was certain.

But it was all right. It was all worth it. He'd gotten his blood inside Finn's mortal wound. Finn had healed before his eyes.

Kurt bolted up as the realization struck. _"Finn!"_ he screamed as he darted to his desk and pulled out a pair of scissors.

Finn soon looked at him from the stop of the stairs in bewilderment. "What?"

"Come down here," Kurt said frantically. "You have to come down here, you have to, Finn, I have to check if—"

"I'm okay," Finn promised him, rushing down the stairs to take Kurt's shoulders in his hand. "Whatever you did, I'm okay. Calm down."

Kurt, ignoring him, yanked one of those hands into his line of vision and sliced Finn across the palm.

"Ow, _fuck!_ " Finn said as he instinctively tried to jerk away, but Kurt was taking the moment more seriously than him and held on with an iron grip. "What the hell, man?"

Not bothering to respond, Kurt stared at the red welling out of that wound. It had to stay open. It couldn't glow, not even a faint glimmer that died like an ember in the air. It couldn't, it couldn't.

"That hurts," Finn whined. "Why did you do that?"

"I had to make sure I didn't...." Kurt bit at his lip. For all his suffering, he'd had perhaps the most fortunate story of any of his kind. Finn would be collared, taken away, and he would almost certainly not be so lucky. "I have to know that my blood didn't infect yours."

"What? You're fine," Finn said. But then Kurt's meaning seemed to sink in, and panic filled his voice. "That doesn't... that's not how it works, right?"

"I don't know. I don't know! _I_ certainly didn't get _infected_ , but can it be spread, I don't know...." Kurt shook his head. He was closing his eyes too tightly. He kept seeing points of lights dance across his vision from it, and every single one seemed to belong to Finn's blood. "We have to watch. If there's even the tiniest glimmer, I will kill you. I _promise._ "

Finn stared at him in horror. "What? Why? Why would you say that, why?"

"Because I can't die, Finn!" Kurt told him, squeezing Finn's hand hard to force out more blood. He ignored the whimper that earned. "I snapped my neck and all I could think of when I woke up was that even _that_ couldn't set me free. So if you're infected I promise you I will try to give you the death I should have left you to in the garage, okay? Before it's too late?"

Seeming to understand he meant that not as a threat but as deep, desperate love, Finn nodded shakily. He looked terrified.

"Your cut's not healing," Kurt muttered. "Good, good. Blood's red, it's all over the floor... kitchen! Finn, hurry, go to the kitchen." He nearly pushed him up the stairs; as his panic swelled so did Finn's clumsiness. They made quite a pair, he thought as he ignored the churning of his stomach to pull out a leftover slice of pizza covered in sausage and pepperoni. "Eat it," he demanded as he practically thrust it into Finn's mouth.

"I hate cold pizza," Finn protested. But then it seemed to process that this was _important_ , like looking at his cut and blood was _important_ , and he started chewing.

With each bite that he saw swallowed, with each moment that Finn didn't vomit up the meat on his meal, Kurt felt some fragment of his panic replaced with relief. He sank onto a chair and tried not to cry. "Okay," he said. "Good signs. Okay. We'll just have to watch things, and I'll still do what I have to do if it all goes wrong, but... but maybe it's okay."

Finn nodded shakily.

"I'm sorry," Kurt whispered. "I was trying to save you."

"No. No, I know." Finn's smile wavered like the horizon over hot asphalt. "I'm not mad. You've got me really freaked out, but I'm not mad."

The cartel would capture Finn if he changed. They'd collar him, ship him off to the highest bidder, and that would almost certainly not be some local boy who'd been given a gift for his birthday. It would be someone far away who would never, ever part with his property.

Kurt palmed a knife left on the table, stared at Finn's bloody hand, and pictured slitting his throat if the first sign of gold came. He realized he'd do it in an instant; it was so much better and so much kinder than the alternative.

That was how he was looked when the EMTs arrived.

No one said anything at first. The technicians looked alternately confused over the situation and awed at Kurt. Burt and Carole clearly couldn't figure out what was going on, why Kurt hadn't vanished to the basement like he'd promised, or why he'd screamed for Finn. Finn tackled the last of the pizza slice like a challenge even as people stared at him.

"There was an accident in the garage," Kurt explained as evenly as he could. "Something landed on Finn. His leg is all bruised and we just want to make sure there isn't any internal bleeding. It might look worse than it is."

"Sure," the female EMT said weakly as she began inching toward Finn, but her eyes were only on Kurt. Either he hadn't been discussed in the local media or, more likely, she hadn't realized to which house she was headed.

"Did you get injured at all?" asked the male EMT, and Kurt realized with surprise that he was asking him.

"No," Kurt said flatly. "You don't need to check me."

"Oh. You sure? There's blood on your pants...."

From the puddle Finn had made on the floor, Kurt realized. Never mind that Finn's pants were a torn, bloody mess and his were only stained. Sure, there were no obvious wounds on either of them, but Finn had the ruined clothes and the bruising. The man clearly just wanted an excuse to touch him. "I'm fine," Kurt said thinly.

With the sharpness to Kurt's tone, he seemed to refocus and helped his partner check on Finn. The injury to his hand—also from the garage, Kurt lied—was sealed with some sort of skin glue, his leg was probed for any swelling that might indicate bleeding, and they concluded that no serious injuries existed. Paperwork was signed, contact information was given, and the ambulance soon pulled out of their driveway.

No one said anything for a long time.

"Kurt," Carole finally said. "What happened?"

It was nearly impossible to tear his eyes away from Finn's patched hand. He wanted to cut open another line to make sure no gold appeared. The only reassurance was that Finn was keeping down that pizza while he knew that his own stomach would reject it instantly. "Finn was going to die," he finally said. His right hand found its way to his left again and began massaging the palm.

"Kurt saved my life," Finn agreed shakily. "I was bleeding. A lot. He stopped it."

Gasping, Carole sought out Finn's hands, squeezed them, and then pulled him in close for a hug. Finn kept staring at Kurt over her shoulders; Burt's attention was similarly fixed.

"It was worth a shot," Kurt said. "He was... he really was going to die, I'm sorry," he choked out.

What if he did change Finn? Would he grow white wings like his, or would they be personal to him? White were the most common, but it was a third of the 'market' if that. There were no geographical ties; someone from Siberia might end up looking like a Costa Rican parrot. Black like a raven was the most unfortunate coloring. Strange people with delusions of being _wicked_ always sought out black wings.

Everyone was staring at him as he shook. "I have to go," Kurt whispered and hurried to the porch.

Carole was still holding Finn and she'd begun to cry. He could hear the conversations begin to start up. Finn explained what happened again, in more detail. He said that he really would have died.

Realizing he'd grabbed the knife off the table with him when he left, Kurt clutched it with a white-knuckled grip as he slammed the glass door behind him. He'd do it. He'd do it without hesitating. Kurt traced a cruel smile on his throat, imagining actually sinking into the flesh, and pictured all the gold that would spill from it. The gold would vanish. So would the wound. Only he would remain.

If he had to, Kurt would do that to Finn. He'd do it soon enough so the cut and blood would replace who had once been Finn Hudson.

He'd do it, Kurt thought as he stared at the grass and open air beyond the screens. He just wondered why everything in his life had to go so wrong.

* * *

"Finn told me what you said."

Kurt flinched at the voice. He'd expected his father, not the mother of the boy he might have damned.

"You saved my son's life," Carole said as she sat next to him. "I don't think you realize what that means to me. You can't possibly understand. I owe you... I owe you _everything._ "

"This is the worst thing possible," Kurt managed to say as he clutched at his collar. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking—"

"You didn't hurt him. Please stop."

He screwed his eyes so tightly closed that no tears could come out. "You don't know that."

"Yes I do. Because I looked up some of those terrible things they do to people like you. They cut them open. It's awful. You can't tell me that never, at any point, did a little blood get on someone where it shouldn't have." Carole's voice tightened. "And if that person had grown wings... oh, sometimes it's easier to trust in people's worst nature."

He didn't understand what she meant, and so Carole clarified, "If it was possible to force someone to look like you, someone would have found that out over fifty years. And there would be a _lot_ more Angels out there, because that person who discovered it would realize they could make an awful lot of money."

Hope was a flitting thing, and something to which Kurt had largely bid farewell. Greed, though... he trusted greed. Greed was real. He'd felt the effects of greed in every aspect of his life.

If it were possible to force people to become Angels, then runaways would be lifted off the streets. Refugees would vanish into mansions, never to be seen again. The weakest of society would lose even the smallest freedoms they had as they were stripped of their names.

Carole pulled him close. He was glad for her being willing to risk that contact far more than his own father. Still, he twisted so her hand wouldn't come anywhere near the base of a wing and she clearly noticed. "I don't think you need to worry about hurting anyone."

When Kurt sat there, unable to wholly believe her, she continued, "It's awful, what those people do. Beyond awful. How do you think they'd feel if they saw wings on one of their children? I think they'd be trying to get the laws changed back," she grumbled, and Kurt had to agree. "But for _you_... they're beautiful. You wonder why you eat what you do, but it's all food that doesn’t hurt anything. I know you're embarrassed, and I know terrible things were done to you, but it's so easy for you to feel good and now you're surrounded by people who won't take advantage. And Kurt?" she finished softly, squeezing his shoulders. "You saved Finn's life."

"But _if_ I'd—"

She put a finger to his lips. "If you look at the world, being an Angel hurts you. And everything about you that's different, now? Everything is about feeling good and loved and not hurting anything." Carole moved her finger under his chin, forcing him to look up and meet her eyes, and continued, "And if you just look at _you_ and ignore those awful people, it's something special. Very special. You don't 'infect' someone with something like this. You have to be chosen."

Fingertips glided across the thin metal ring of his collar. Kurt thought of the number on a controller tying him forever to within a mile of a small blinking box.

"I know," Carole said sadly. "There are some people in the world who can't help but see something beautiful and try to hurt it for no good reason. But that makes them wrong, not you." She kissed him high on one cheek. "Just think of them as devils."

He laughed a little despite himself, and nodded. "Thanks, Carole. That was another really good mom speech." She was probably taking lessons from his dad.

Her lips twitched into a smile. "Did you buy it?"

"Parts of it," Kurt admitted.

"Burt wanted to come talk to you, but I insisted on going first. Because you... you _saved Finn's life_ ," she repeated and dabbed at her eyes as sudden tears formed. "God. I'm going to be shaking when this really hits."

"I didn't know what else to do."

She squeezed him again. "You did the right thing. Kurt, anything you need from me, ever, for the rest of my _life_... you've got it. It's yours. You just ask, okay? You just ask."

He nodded quietly.

"Come on. Let's go back inside. We'll get out the ice cream and... and, well, the honey, I suppose. That sounds good, right?" She tugged him up, almost against his will, and said "Right" when he didn't agree.

Kurt finally said the word when they were almost to the door. It was difficult to think, after the fear and adrenaline and bone-crushing guilt. His feet seemed to be attached to someone else, and his mind was a thousand miles away.

That was why it was so difficult to acknowledge that something very, very big had just happened in that house.


	6. Chapter 6

Finn clearly didn't know what to say to him that evening. No words were exchanged beyond a shaky "thanks." Kurt got into bed, Finn showered, and both of them stared at some point in the room until they fell asleep.

Despite Carole's words, Kurt kept waking up that night to check Finn's back. Carole had told him the same logic she'd shared with Kurt, and Finn was clearly convinced. Because of that, Kurt was careful not to let Finn catch him gently prodding the space between his shoulder blades, seeking the smallest bumps that shouldn't be there. No need to make him worry.

He tried not to add that if he did need to kill Finn, it would be kindest to do so in his sleep.

He would do it. Picturing Finn screaming from the shock of a collar, being called by a new name, being _raped_... it made Kurt want to cry. He couldn't let that happen. While his mind knew that Carole's logic made sense, his heart wouldn't let him stay asleep lest he miss some crucial moment between the first feathers budding and Finn's blood turning gold.

He wouldn't even be punished. Property couldn't go on trial and rich owners had been sure to establish that they weren't responsible for anything their Angels did.

Finn Hudson was still very much human when his alarm went off the next morning for school. "Thanks again," he said awkwardly as he walked out of the bathroom in a polo shirt and jeans. His hand prodded again at the bruises under the denim and Finn winced, but he seemed to take it as a reminder that he was alive. "It all happened so quick, it's like... it's hardly even processed."

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said. Exhaustion sank in as he realized that Finn could watch himself during the day, and for the first time he really wanted to sleep. Carole's logic made sense, he thought as his eyelids fluttered closed. It made perfect sense. He'd just gotten used to the worst-case scenario.

It was two in the afternoon when he finally sat up, yawning and stretching. A message from Puck had arrived during third period: _wtvr ddnt wnt u ne wy_.

Maybe it was the desire to do something fun for once and not fret, but Kurt, smirking, typed a reply. _You really wouldn't go for me?_ He should still be feeling guilty over Puck, but dammit, he wanted a distraction.

Amazingly, the next text came from Santana. It told him that he seriously needed to stop teasing Puck or he would have blue balls for the next two days. A follow-up informed Kurt that should that happen, she would hold him personally responsible for any permanent damage.

He grinned a little and shot back that he'd like to see her try. A dozen follow-ups filled his mind: after all, she couldn't lay a hand on him without winding up in prison. After all, his dad would kick anyone's ass who hurt him. After all, he could just hover five feet above her fingertips. Settling on that one, he texted back that he could just stay out of reach.

 _Wait, it's true?_ Mercedes sent a little later. Kurt was amused at how everyone's phone brand preference came across through the formatting of their texts.

 _What is?_

 _You can fly?!?! I thought Finn + Mike were lying!!!_ Then, _Why didn't you show me? :(((((_

Groaning, he replied that he'd just needed to distract Finn and it hadn't really been planned. He hoped she never heard that Finn had been touching his wings; she'd probably complain that he hadn't let her do it first. Because the texts from everyone had been so easy, and he was still so relaxed after his day's sleep, it took him a while to process Rachel's text when it arrived.

 _Did something happen yesterday?_

Kurt bit his lip. People were apparently passing around his texts between them. He didn't know if a phone call would be better, but if a text was a surefire privacy violation then it was at least worth a shot. With a glance toward the clock, he confirmed it was the passing period before the last class of the day and dialed.

"Kurt?" Rachel asked, surprised. "You're calling?"

"I know you have to get to class so: why do you think something happened yesterday?"

"Finn is acting different." Kurt's gut seized with fear over what that might mean, but she continued, "He's not bragging."

"What?" Kurt said, sitting up and frowning. "What do you mean, he's not bragging?"

"Oh, he's made such a production out of how reliable he's being, how helpful. Just making sure we all understand that he is your go-to confidante." At his half-asked question, she quickly said, "Oh, no! He hasn't been telling anyone anything specific. You just know that he loves to get credit for _everything_ he does, and, well, he is the only person in this school who will ever be in this position."

Ignoring the fact that Rachel Berry also 'liked to get credit,' Kurt slowly nodded. "Got it. So he really hasn't shared, um, anything? Mercedes said she heard about the flying...." If Finn started talking about how he'd gotten him off....

"That was Mike. No, Finn hasn't said a word about anything in particular, just reports on how he thinks he cheered you up, all the errands he's been running, that sort of thing. Considering how much everyone is thinking about you, we never tire of hearing any indication of improvement. And yes, I'm sorry, we're all talking about you behind your back."

"I figured," Kurt said distractedly. Something about what she was saying bothered him, but he supposed it didn't really matter. Finn had been there for his father, did run the errands that kept him safe from accidental collar firings, and remained the only reliable blockade between Kurt and his worst memories. He should be allowed to hear some praise for that, because anything he said wasn't enough. "And he hasn't today?"

"No, he's quiet. It seems like he's very shaken up."

"There was an accident at the house yesterday. A jack collapsed. He could have been injured worse than the bruises he got, and I think it must just now be sinking in that something terrible could have happened," Kurt said with careful lies by omission.

"Oh, that explains everything. I'm so glad he wasn't injured worse! He should have just told us, I can't be the only person worrying."

Kurt's reply died in his throat when he heard a bell ring over the phone. "Get to class, Rachel. Sorry to have kept you."

The desperation to set things right with him filled her voice. "I don't have to. I hate that class. I could skip. Do you need to talk?"

"No. Go to class. Thanks, and goodbye," he said and hung up before she could argue.

Shaking off any lingering confusion from the conversation, he tried to get at least a bit of studying done before the house once again filled with people.

* * *

"Huh," Finn said a couple of days later. He was trying, and mostly failing, to pull his elbow into view. Kurt pointed him to a mirror instead. "It's gone."

"What?"

"This scar I've had for years," he answered, twisting his arm this way and that in the light. "Kind of a big one, but it was right over the elbow so you didn't notice when my arm wasn't bent."

Kurt sat up, worried. Finn might not have watched for warning signs with the intensity he would have. "Finn, give me your hand," Kurt ordered.

With a well-practiced protest, Finn did. Cuts were healing in stripes across his palm: the first faded into a dark scab under the EMT's treatment, the second with a few weak spots left to close, the third still red and fresh. (Kurt did trust Carole's words more with each day, but he trusted the sight of red blood most of all.) Something about that sight suddenly resonated in Kurt's mind: Finn's old scar was healing, but wounds made since the accident remained. Finn the Angel would not keep those tiny cuts over days. Relief swept Kurt and he pushed Finn's hand back. He was not a threat, not if those cuts remained. It only healed what was already wrong with a person at the moment of contact, and it did not change them. "When?" he asked. "Did it just happen, or did you just notice it?"

"Just noticed it," Finn admitted. "Could have happened any time."

Amazing, Kurt admitted to himself as his heart slowed back to a normal pace. "I didn't know I could do that," he admitted. "It was pure adrenaline. I hoped that my blood healing me would translate into healing you, but I didn't think past that open wound. I've lost all my scars. It only makes sense. It's apparently powerful stuff."

"Apparently," Finn repeated, and began to look uncomfortable.

"What is it?"

"Kurt?" Finn asked quietly. "Um. I'm remembering something you said. It was when you were freaking out, and so I freaked out, and it didn't really process then...." He took a deep breath when Kurt made a noise of curiosity. "What do you mean that you can't die?"

"Oh," Kurt said quietly. He tugged on the hem of his shirt, straightening it needlessly, before he found the courage to reply. "I was a couple hundred feet in the air when my collar fired. I fell. I landed wrong... listen to me, like there's a _right_ way to fall to one's, well, one's death. My neck snapped."

"But you're... here," Finn said warily, like he wasn't wholly convinced that Kurt wasn't a zombie. "You seriously _died?_ "

"Like a doornail," Kurt replied. Either his theological views were correct or, in a bout of wicked irony, Angels were kept out of heaven. There had been no Pearly Gates, no light guiding his way, and nothing except a half-second flash of relief that it was over before his world went black. "But then I woke up," Kurt said hollowly. He could live a thousand years and never experience a worse moment than that unwanted resurrection.

"Well, good," Finn said emphatically. He seemed ready to pass out from picturing that sequence of events.

"Now, yes, I'd agree with you," Kurt said, but each word was quieter than the one before. Realization was beginning to weigh on him as heavily as the first discovery of the damned things on his back. He could live a thousand years? It wasn't out of the question; no one had any clue as to their lifespan.

Civil rights moved in spurts and that fervor in the populace took a while to build. Perhaps one day Angels would keep their rights as citizens, but it might not happen for a century yet.

His father would not live to see the day when Kurt could be free. He'd have to turn over the controller to someone else, and then they'd hand it off, over and over in an endless string. Each one carried with it the risk that this time, the new 'owner' would want to live up to every implication of the word. There he was, free and probably the most fortunate of any of his kind, and Kurt was already mourning a dead father and his own future freedom at risk. If only he didn't have that damned body, he thought with anger. Its unnatural wings, its restricted diet, its glowing blood that could safely heal a stepbrother-to-be but couldn't let Kurt die and would always keep... him....

"Kurt?" Finn asked when Kurt stared blankly at the wall for far too long. "You okay?" he tried snapping his fingers in front of Kurt's face; Kurt moved in response like he was deep underwater.

And then, all in an instant, he bolted off his chair, up the stairs, and tore into the kitchen with a flurry of noise. Burt and Carole, sitting comfortably in the living room, asked him what was wrong. He seldom entered the kitchen any more; they brought out his foods of choice to him so he wouldn't be forced to smell everything else. "Perfect," Kurt announced as he found a paring knife and ran over to the duo.

"Kurt, what are you—Jesus, son, stop!" Burt gasped as Kurt drove the point of the knife into his thumb with great determination and began to twist the cut as wide open as it would go.

"Drink," Kurt said shortly, holding his bleeding thumb out to his father. They only gawked back at him. With a noise of irritation Kurt had to widen the wound again; he hissed with the motions. "Drink!"

"Kurt, sweetie," Carole said carefully. "What are you doing?"

"It's fine," he promised them as he kept working the knife into his thumb. "Finn is fine and he will be fine. But you have to do this, okay?" When they looked at each other in mingled confusion and fear, Kurt said with the panic of that imagined future, "Dad, you have to drink or I am going to wind up someone's slave again, okay?"

"What?" Burt asked, astonished, but that trailed off into choking sounds when Kurt shoved his bleeding thumb deep into his father's mouth.

"Drink!"

As Burt sputtered and gagged, Carole clutched Kurt's other arm and begged for him to lie down. He was clearly under a great deal of stress, and they didn't judge him for it, but he needed to _put away the knife_ and calm down.

"You should drink next, Carole," Kurt said distantly as he managed to catch the wound on a canine and tear it back open. Blood flowed into Burt's mouth, and although he tried to spit it out Kurt could see his throat work once, almost against his will. With a sigh of relief he pulled his hand free, raised the knife, and asked Carole, "Would you like me to wash my hand first? You two _do_ kiss, after all."

"Kurt!" Burt sputtered, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know how long I'm going to live, Dad," he said with perfect reason. "And whenever you die, as much as I hate to think about it, I don't know who'd have me. But...." Kurt gasped, and Carole fought back a similar noise as she stared. "But now I don't know how long you'll live, either," he almost giggled.

"Burt," Carole gawked. "Your hair. It's getting darker." Hand stealing up to brush against that thin hair, Burt looked nervously between Carole and Kurt. "Yes," Carole confirmed with wonder, and then turned to stare at Kurt.

"I don't think it'll go very much further," Kurt said levelly, "since I couldn't get you to swallow very much. This time. Carole, want me to use the knife again?"

"Porch," Burt managed to say, choking out the word through a thickly constricted throat. His hand kept brushing at the side of his head. His expression was disbelieving.

Aware that Carole was gawking at him, Kurt smiled regardless. Then he followed his father outside. For once, the soft ticking of the kitchen clock didn't sound like a threat.

* * *

"What did you do to me?"

Kurt grinned brilliantly at his father. Around them was only death: the scent of a neighbor cutting late season grass and leaving it to wither. The first yellowed leaves appearing on branches after an early frost. The few, hardiest bees that had made it through that frost but lost many sisters.

Death didn't touch where he stood, though. The past days had reminded Kurt of that, and had taught new lessons.

He suffered. He was ripped away from his family, abused, sold, and tortured more. His old life was forever gone. His future was unclear. He was changed in his friends' eyes.

They were right to look at him differently, Kurt thought with that same smile. He was life.

"Kurt!" Burt almost yelled, trying to refocus his attention. "Tell me what you just did!"

"You don't ever have to worry about getting too young on accident," Kurt said as he luxuriated under that gentle touch of an autumn breeze. "Finn had much more blood than you in him, and he doesn't look a day younger. It bottoms out at twenty or so, I'd guess. That's the oldest Angels ever look."

"Kurt," Burt said with disbelief. "Stop. _Stop._ What the hell were you doing back there? What did you do to me?"

"What happens when you die?" Kurt said, hand splayed under his collar to frame it.

"I... Kurt, what do you...."

"Would you give me to Carole? She wouldn't have much longer. Who's next? Can we be absolutely sure, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that I wouldn't end up in the hands of someone who could be tempted by a ten million dollar offer?" Fingers picked at the edge of the metal. "I don't know how long I'll live, Dad. No one does. The one thing I do know is that I can't be free and so I _need_ someone that I can trust with my life."

The full weight of what he was saying began to sink in behind his father's eyes. Burt looked stunned at the implications. More than that, he looked sick with fear at the idea of not being able to protect his son from some of the worst suffering imaginable thanks to his own reliable mortality. "You're going to stay young," he said like he was establishing their ground rules.

"I am."

"Your blood... it healed Finn, like it healed those wings of yours."

"It did," Kurt said patiently as his father put all the pieces into place.

"So if it heals you and it healed Finn, and it keeps you young and you just...." Burt put his fingers against his lips, went quiet, and swallowed.

Opening his mouth to explain the worst-case scenario, Kurt found his courage faltering. He couldn't tell his own father that he'd died. He hoped Finn would know better than to share it. "They do say that we can't die," he pointed out, sounding uncertain. "If things went bad, Dad... I would be trapped again. _If_ that's true I'd have no escape."

"Kurt...."

"I don't know if some day it'll be safe to get this taken off," Kurt continued in a voice thicker by the second. "I hope it will. And maybe some day I'll be able to die. I hope so." He saw Burt protesting and said, "You don't know. You don't know what it's like until you think that you _can't._ But until one of those happens... I really need my dad."

Burt rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled deeply. Exhaustion brought on by the enormity of that moment warred with the vigor of turning back the clock. Kurt estimated that his father had lost three years, maybe four. That was when the very last of the color had faded from his hair. He looked healthier and refreshed, but not much past that. For now. "Yeah," Burt said. "Of course. I'm not letting anyone get near you. I just...."

He was a man with simple loves in his life. He didn't need spectacular things to be happy. The possibility he'd just been handed... it was the biggest dream in human history. It was huge, and probably nothing that Burt Hummel would have chosen on his own. But he wouldn't dare let his son be at risk, for however long he needed to be there. All of that was contained in one deep sigh. By that point Kurt was well-versed in the language of his father's face. "You could have _asked_ me first," he finally said.

"Sorry," Kurt said. "I was kind of... panicking."

"I noticed," he said dryly. Then he looked back toward the door to the house. Once again, Kurt knew what he was thinking.

This was an awful lot to ask of anyone. Youth and health wouldn't necessarily be a gift, not in a world with a 24-hour media cycle. The Hummels would almost certainly be moving out of Lima. They couldn't be around the people who knew them and would raise the most questions. They could barely afford to be around people at all.

Kurt was already concocting lies in his head. Why weren't all the owners staying young forever? It had to be a family thing. No other Angel was with members of his family, so far as he knew. The world would never be able to question the lie and it would make him unattractive for anyone else to take if they wouldn't get that family benefit. Carole, if she did come along, would have to be his birth mother whenever she was introduced.

Leaving behind Lima would leave behind his real mother's grave.

"We're gonna have to move," Burt said, coming to the same conclusions. "I can work wherever we go; everyone's got cars. I can sell the garage, sell the house... Lima's not a great market, but we can find somewhere else even cheaper. Maybe the mountains."

"Appalachians?" Kurt asked, picturing the southeast part of the state.

"Rockies. Hardly anyone there, right? You can get out of the crowds, have some breathing room... be safe." He exhaled low and long as the future unrolled like a map before them. The _Rockies._ Thousands of miles away, a strange land of sharp peaks and towering pines. Civilization existed in dots between stretches of open sky, not in an unbroken blanket of fields across the Midwest. "Yeah," Burt said, nodding to himself. "You wouldn't need a passport, but I'd need one and a visa to work somewhere else, so... yeah. That's the best bet. Somewhere up north, in the Rockies. We'll find somewhere. I'm gonna go talk to Carole."

The door slid open behind Kurt, then closed. He let his father go without turning to follow.

He could believe Carole's speech, now. All of it. If he'd gone through so much suffering, he could really believe that it was for some reason.

In his heart, only his father mattered. Everything else in his life was ultimately disposable if it came down to that. If Burt were injured, Kurt could heal him. The man hated to go to the doctor, but anything wrong with him even now was being corrected like Finn's scar.

In a way far past what any security system could promise, Kurt knew he was safe. And soon he would be as free as the world could allow.

Kurt looked dismissively at the six-foot fence around their small backyard and fought back the urge to laugh at it. There would be no neighbors clustering around him to stare and point. The only audience would be great trees, and any rare onlooker would be hidden below them. At high noon, when everything in the world seemed to be awake... he could still step off the earth.

Lima trapped him as surely as his collar. Too many people in their neighborhood. In their state. In their time zone. He felt imprisoned and frightened, moreso each day. Instinct drove that, and he was as helpless to fight it as he was touches against his wings. He was twitchy. Panicky.

It was no wonder he couldn't find his voice, either in writing or song. Now that he'd started picturing somewhere else, all the problems with his hometown began to reveal themselves. Cars belching exhaust, meadows vanishing under Walmart Superstores. Grocery stores filled with produce that had been dead for days.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do just yet. All his young life he'd planned a future in a concrete jungle, though the thought horrified him now. He'd had big dreams about what that life would be. For the first time, as Kurt thought ahead to an open sky with no audience but the sun, he began to wonder if he might be allowed big dreams again.

For what, he didn't know. They were right: they'd have to keep this discovery hidden. The world couldn't know what was going on. His father, his 'mother' would have to naturally and slowly lose years from his mere presence, or so those around him would think. Rich playboys bought Angels now, but the chance at immortality would put them into the sights of world leaders with tanks and guns.

Kurt could do that. He could hide this secret. And in return, he could stop hiding himself. He was life, and with that discovery he got his own life back. Tension he'd been carrying with him since the first feathers eased.

He could have a future. His dad would be there for it.

With a deep breath and a fresh smile, Kurt turned to go inside. The conversation had likely started without him.

* * *

After he entered, it took a long time before anyone spoke.

"This is... quite a thing," Carole finally managed. "Burt, how do you feel?"

"Great," he half-laughed. "Just a little bit and I feel great." He did look good. The tiredness that hadn't wholly faded from that summer was almost wiped away. His skin was firmer, eyes brighter, and signs of stress were faded or gone. But then his jaw set and he asked, "How do you feel?"

Of course he wasn't asking about her physically. This was huge. This might break them up, Kurt realized with a stab of guilt, if she couldn't accept it. He _had_ to have his father, and so it wasn't like he could apologize and promise never again to pull Burt back from the ravages of time. But if this ended them, the guilt might crush him.

"I don't know," Carole said. "Finn?"

"I don't understand what happened," he admitted.

"My blood healed you," Kurt said, "like it heals me. And my blood keeps me young, and...."

"He shoved his bleeding hand into my mouth," Burt said bluntly and Finn blinked.

"Wait, what?" Finn asked, bemused. "Why would you do that?"

"Because every time my owner dies," Kurt said quietly, "I will get passed to someone else with nothing left to do but cross my fingers and hope." Finn began to protest that he didn't need to worry about that for years, yet, but Kurt shook his head. "I have to think that far ahead. Because in the grand scheme of things, it might not be all that long. I have to keep him young, too."

"You're going to _keep_ him young," Finn repeated. His eyes went wide with awed disbelief as he processed the words.

"I have to think about this," Carole said quietly and the mood died in an instant.

Before he could help himself, Kurt looked at his father to see how badly the words wounded him: deeply. Asked to choose between a fiancée and his own flesh and blood, the decision was simple.

"Finn," Carole said, "why don't you go see a friend? We'll need to talk later, but I want to take a little drive first."

"What's wrong?" Finn asked. "Why is there a talk? Why does everyone look so weird? I mean, is it not just the blood stuff?"

She took her son's face in her hands and held his gaze. "You've been so good with dealing with everything, Finn. I've been so proud of you. You know that everything that Kurt's had to go through... it's awful, right? Nothing that anyone should have to deal with?"

"Well, yeah," he said slowly. "That's why I've been trying to help. Did I do something wrong?"

"No," she promised. "No, you've been amazing. I just... I have to think about what's happening next. You haven't done anything wrong, trust me. I've never been more proud of you than I have been since this summer. Try to be home around six, okay?"

"Okay," Finn said, sounding very confused. "I guess I shouldn't tell anyone about all this?"

"Absolutely not," Burt said with dead certainty. "You cannot ever, _ever_ tell anyone what Kurt did to your leg, or what this did to me. Swear it. You can't say one word—"

"I swear it, okay," Finn said. His confusion ramped higher with each second and he seemed more than willing to go anywhere but there. "I'll go visit someone, bye." He departed, still glancing over his shoulder in bewilderment, and Carole followed.

"She has to decide," Burt said with a casual ease he clearly didn't feel. "You know. She might be signing up for a bigger 'til death do you part' than she expected. Can't blame her."

"Dad," Kurt whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you even start," Burt said, clapping one of his shoulders and squeezing. "Worse comes to worse, she doesn't want to deal with this, then we haven't signed any papers. And when it boils down to it, you can end a marriage. It's between equals, people who came in there with both eyes open. You didn't have any choice about having me as your dad, and you will _always_ be my son. You come first."

Nodding quietly, Kurt tried to believe that.

"I know you don't spend the time down there you did before, but you mind camping out in your room for a little while, kiddo? I just need to take in everything." Burt whooshed out a deep breath. "It's been a big day."

"Sure thing," Kurt said. "Just call me up when it's time for the big discussion."

This was absurd, Kurt thought as he sat quietly in the cool of his basement. He couldn't ask them to do this, just pick up their lives. Could he? They certainly couldn't move piecemeal, trying to maintain two households at a time. The Hudson house was still for sale, and might be for some time. Selling the garage and trying to start a new one in some far-off town would need more cash in their savings, not less. Paying the mortgages on multiple houses would work against that.

And would they even do it? Carole had a career and friends. Finn had his whole life. But... Kurt smiled and allowed himself to dream. Carole had been amazing, as had Finn. Finn, more than anyone else, knew what he'd been through. For Kurt to be able to walk outside, to not look out the front window and see familiar faces staring back like he was an object to claim, to not be a subject of endless gossip, to be able to breathe and think and _hope_...

Finn, after everything they'd gone through, touched his wings to make him happy.

He might actually do this. He might actually make that sacrifice to give Kurt back some sliver of a life. He might—

As his heart seemed to lurch in his chest, Kurt screamed and collapsed to the floor. Agony consumed him. Sharp stabs tore through his ribcage and constricted every breath. Then, as his vision dimmed and the pain somehow surged even higher, he realized his heart was stuttering uselessly.

His collar was firing. Unable to gasp for air, his screams died. It was too close to the signal. The electrical impulses that usually only simulated pain were actually stopping his heart.

It stopped in a second and Kurt curled up in a tight ball on the floor. His heart thudded painfully back into motion. Tears and snot smeared his face as he bawled over that pain, as severe as any he'd ever felt and made worse by the shock after a long absence.

"Oh Jesus, son, I'm sorry!" Burt gasped as he tried to pull him off the floor and onto his lap.

"Why?" Kurt choked out, too stunned to feel confusion or betrayal or a thousand other things.

"I wanted to see how far those changes were going," Burt said desperately. "Went to take off my shirt in the bathroom, the damn controller slipped out of my pocket. I grabbed for it. I hit the screen. And then I heard—"

"It hurt," Kurt sobbed against his chest.

"I'm so sorry," Burt repeated, murmuring the words into his son's ear like a lullaby. "That's... _that's_ what they did to you?"

"All the time."

"Christ," Burt said shakily and held him close. His arms occasionally brushed against the wings, but the motion was too quick to let sensations linger and for the first time he knowingly took the risk. "Here," he finally murmured and used the soft, worn material of his unbuttoned shirt to clean Kurt's face. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry," he said, voice catching on the words.

"I'm okay," Kurt said as his breathing steadied. The sensation was familiar: get through the pain. Let the nerves calm. Regain his old rhythm. Move past it. Yes, he had a lot of practice with all of that. He'd had to... Kurt screwed his eyes shut and breathed more quickly than intended. "I'm going to take a shower before they come back, all right?" Showers to try and scrub away memories; he should break that habit, but he supposed it was relatively harmless.

"Kurt," Burt said uselessly. "I'm sorry. God, please believe me."

"I do, Dad. It was an accident."

Jaw working, like that could keep him from crying, Burt finally said through a sandpaper-rough throat, "I will never let anyone take you. You know that, right?"

Nodding, Kurt promised that he did. There would be no way to associate his collar with anything good, he thought a few minutes later as he began working the shampoo into his hair. His blood made him _powerful_ , now, not a victim. Touch was beginning to be a pleasant thing. But there was no way to own what that collar did to him. The only thing he could do with it was wait until... Kurt's hands stilled.

The metal was integrated with his spine. One option would be to crack open the collar and cut between it and the spike penetrating his neck. He could see the result in his mind: forever marked as former property by the small disc of metal standing almost-flush with his flesh. Or he could have it ripped out entirely, likely taking a vertebrae with it. He couldn't imagine how painful it would be as he healed.

But just like the owner-made pain of the collar, anything that happened to him would be gone shortly after. That was what he would do, Kurt thought with determination. The hope of that day, that he would leave that crowded suburban town, let him focus on the future instead succumbing to memories. He would triumph over his collar by making its last pain be that of its complete and utter removal.

Smiling shakily, Kurt stepped out of his shower at its conclusion. The water was still hot when he turned it off. He hadn't lost himself to a flashback.

Progress. Not that he'd wanted to discover that progress through his collar firing, but progress all the same.

Voices were talking when he began ascending the stairs. Kurt stopped walking and listened, his earlier fear returning. But Carole was not, as he'd worried, breaking up with his father at that very moment. Instead, she was saying with pure concern and love, "Oh, Burt, it's not your fault."

"The sound of him screaming like that, Carole... and I did it. I did it to him."

"He said he knew it was an accident, right?" she asked gently.

"Yeah. Not that it makes it any better. I just... damn. To hear your kid, your _baby_ make that sort of noise...."

No one said anything for a while, at least not loud enough for Kurt to hear. He risked taking another step up in hopes of eavesdropping. It was fortunate he did, for his father was barely audible when he spoke again. "I promised him that I would never let anyone take him. And I mean it. Ever. I'm sorry. I know this is a change. I know this is... it's totally not what you thought your life would be."

"It's not," Carole admitted.

"I'll think that about me for a second, and then I think... how can I even care? He said they used that damn collar on him all the time. They..." Tears choked him up. "It sounded like someone was killing him, Carole. How can anything else in my life matter when there's the risk that someday, someone could start doing that to him again? How does any other bullshit in this town, at work, wherever compare to that?"

"I completely understand," she said, but then the water started running in the sink and he could no longer hear their soft words. Well, then. Time to let them finish their conversation. And then, when he was properly called upstairs, Kurt would learn whether he'd doomed his father to a century alone.

* * *

Dinner was pasta in a cream sauce. Though Kurt didn't eat it, the smell didn't make him sick and he smiled at Carole's consideration there. She smiled back and urged him to eat his salad.

The day before he would have stared at that heavy sauce and pictured arteries and cholesterol and a thousand different problems that could give his father an early death. Now, he knew his own blood was fixing problems inside his body as surely as the scar on Finn's elbow. Now, he knew that should something catastrophic happen, he could slit his wrist and bring anyone back. "Dinner looks great," he told her sincerely.

"Thank you," she said, but the tension was too great to ignore. Finn clearly wanted to know just what was going on around him, and Carole took on the job of explaining it. "Finn, I know Kurt's been talking to you about what people did to him."

Nervously, Finn glanced at Kurt. Kurt stared pointedly back and tried his best to indicate that Finn should nod; he did. "Yeah. It was really bad. Worst stuff I've ever heard."

"It is," she agreed. "It can't happen again. And so... Kurt needs to keep his dad with him until it's safe for him to be free again. You understand that, right?"

"Yeah." Finn twirled his fork in his dinner. "Does that mean you're gonna have hair, Burt?"

He grinned, but then that died a little. "Yeah," Burt said. "It does. Eventually. It's not like we know what, uh, dose to use. Things'll probably overshoot, and more likely'n not I'm gonna look a whole lot younger than I do now."

"They have all those infomercials on late night tv," Finn laughed weakly. "About stuff you're supposed to rub on your head. Guess people just need to use Kurt, huh?" His joke landed heavily as the other three looked meaningfully between them, and he swallowed. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You're right," Carole said with tremendous care. "People would be very interested in this."

"And it wouldn't be safe," Burt said with a glance to his son.

"People will start asking questions," Carole continued in a level tone, clearly sharing the basic logic Burt had discussed with her earlier. "And the only way Kurt can be safe is if we pretend that I'm his first and only mom. That way no one else will be tempted to take him, even with all the laws. They have to think it's a natural part of being around your blood family." She saw the question in Finn's eyes and nodded. "I'm going to do this, sweetie. I love this man, I love his son, and I want to be with them for a very long time. And I said I'd give him anything when he saved your life."

Kurt let out a sigh of relief that he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Wow," Finn managed, swallowing. "Okay. Wow."

"And if we're going to pretend I'm his birth mom," Carole carefully continued, "then we can't be around people who know otherwise. We have to move. We're going to move far away, where there aren't many people. Kurt will be able to walk outside without anyone staring. He won't be trapped any more. Isn't that a good thing?"

"We're moving?" Finn said, clearly able to focus only on that and not the freedom it would give to Kurt. "But... I'm the quarterback."

Kurt looked down. He knew what he'd asked was selfish. Finn being the first person to call him on it didn't make it any less true.

"I just... I don't want to move," Finn said. "All my friends are here, we're having a good season for the first time in _forever_. I'd have to make new friends, try out for a new team... my whole life is here, Mom. Do we have to move _now?_ "

"No," Kurt said, shrugging a little. "No. You don't have to move. You don't have to deal with any of this, Finn. Don't worry. It won't be too long. I can manage." He brushed off his father's hand when it tried to land on his shoulder. "I can, Dad. Really, it's not fair to ask Finn to do this. He should be able to graduate and leave all this behind, and not have to deal with my issues. We can move then."

Burt sighed and didn't argue. Nor did Carole, though she looked at Finn with disappointment in her eyes.

"I can manage," Kurt said quietly as he looked out the window at the sun still out of his reach. Walls pressed down on him. It was like his cage was shrinking. He'd thought he was free. "It won't be that long." Not in comparison to a life without a known ending point and no possible exits.

"Coach Beiste says we might make it to state," Finn almost whined when he saw Carole's face.

"I wouldn't want you to miss out on that," Kurt said even more softly. He stood, feeling suddenly tired. For hope to arrive and be ripped away was an exhausting process. "I'm going to go take a nap, everyone. You don't need to wake me."

It was hard not to cry as he curled up on his side in the silence of the basement. It was selfish, what he'd asked. His existence was static. Tomorrow would be little different from two years on out. Finn still got to have the arc of a normal life. It would be very, very selfish for him to interrupt it. He hadn't asked for this marriage, and he hadn't asked to have what he cared about ripped away from him. Finn didn't owe him anything.

He'd just... Kurt had let himself hope. He was going to go outside without fear.

His pillow was wet, Kurt realized as he sniffled.

He had to stop crying. If Finn came down he would feel guilty and he might agree because of that. Finn hadn't asked to be plucked from school and shipped to some new home deliberately in the middle of nowhere. Finn hadn't done anything wrong. Finn deserved to go to state and prom and graduation without Kurt ruining it all for him. Finn deserved better than to be weighed down by him.

He'd get over it, Kurt knew as he tried to stop crying and instead fall into sleep. But for that moment, he'd let himself hate Finn Hudson and his life of freedom just a little bit.


	7. Chapter 7

That was that, then. The calendar had just turned to October. It would be more than a year and a half until Kurt could step outside of his own house without fear, shame, or simple exhaustion over being an object to everyone who saw him.

He was tired.

The next day was wasted. He dozed, mostly, ignoring his books in the basement and the cleaning chores he could tackle around the house. Only stirring when he felt something being placed over him, Kurt blinked half-awake and saw Finn's hands pulling back after placing that blanket.

"Hey," Finn said uncertainly. "You just zoned out all evening and never said anything. And now you're still sleeping. Are you sick?" He frowned. "Can you even get sick?"

"No," Kurt mumbled against the couch's throw pillow.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Finn's frown intensified at the answer. "It looks like something's wrong. You checked out after dinner... was it what I said? Because you said that was fine."

"Yeah," Kurt said, tugging the blanket up around his chin. "It is fine. You didn't do anything wrong." He hadn't made a wonderful, unthinkably considerate sacrifice by giving up a tiny sliver of 'life' compared to what Kurt had seen stolen from him, but that didn't make him _wrong._ An anchor didn't exist in a state of moral judgment, after all. It just was.

"You sure?" Finn asked.

"Mmmhmm."

Finn knelt down. "Well, if you're sure... I'm gonna go downstairs and work on my moves for the next performance. Wanna come make fun of me?"

Did he want to see Finn work on a performance for a club he could no longer attend, belonging to a school that denied he existed? No, Kurt thought bitterly. He did not.

This wasn't any different than his life had been two days earlier, Kurt reminded himself. He'd felt trapped in that house then and it was no different now. It was technically better, even: now his 'prison sentence' was sure to end, instead of being a thing that _might_ someday be corrected. His father would be with him for as long as he was needed. It was just that... his life had been a string of bitter acceptances ever since the end of spring. The few positives had largely taken him by surprise. He'd been able to get up his hopes about that freedom out west. It had been a long time since he'd really hoped for anything.

"Then... do you want to play some video games or something?" Finn asked. "I've got Rock Band. It'd be like the club. Except you would play an instrument, if you wanted to. Or you could have vocals."

"No thank you."

"Okay," Finn said, standing and frowning again. "I guess I'll go practice, then. Uh. Have a nice nap."

Kurt did, until he woke again to the feeling of a hand gently nudging his shoulder. His father's concerned face looked down on him and Kurt said quietly, "Just give me a day or two, I'll be fine. I just got excited, is all."

Burt sighed. "You want me to go talk to him?"

"No. After everything, I could never force someone to give up what they care about," Kurt said, even if it did seem so insignificant in comparison to the totality of what he'd lost. "I just... I had all these plans for what I'd be doing now, but it's been so hard to focus. All I can think about is that I'm surrounded by people."

He wondered how Angels with city-dwelling owners reacted. Did they also feel this spine-itching drive to get away, or was that beaten out of them with a full training regimen? Was it from his own desperate need to be seen as a person and the knowledge that he was surrounded by tens of thousands of people who were incapable of doing so? Most of his kind wouldn’t even blink at being labeled 'it.'

"You need some stuff to hold your attention," Burt agreed. "We know we said we'd do a real small thing in the back yard for the wedding, but that doesn't mean it has to be boring. You want to put something together for it?"

Kurt smiled a little. That could be fun. "Okay."

"And hey, this'll be a big move. We don't even know where we'll go. How about I start checking places out and I'll shoot you some listings, huh? You can look up those towns and tell me what looks good. Then I'll have some places to focus on when we're serious." Burt chuckled a bit. "I mean, I've never even been west of the Mississippi. About all I know for Montana is that they made that movie about fishing there, and Idaho has potatoes."

"You like potatoes," Kurt agreed against his pillow. "And fishing. Sure. Sounds like a plan."

"Okay, good," Burt said, ruffling his hair. "I know, you're not up for it just yet. Go back to sleep if you want." He took a step away, then stopped and said thoughtfully, "You know, your car's got pretty dark windows. Big seats in the back. And it needs to be driven. You wanna get out of this house some time, see some stuff outside?"

Kurt managed to smile again. "Okay. Sounds fun."

"See? It won't be so bad." But he hesitated before he moved any further. "You sure you don't want me talking to Finn?"

Shaking his head, Kurt said no again. He wanted Finn to say that his freedom and sanity were more important than winning state. He wanted to know just what was behind Finn's willingness to touch him, and where they were supposed to go with that in the year and a half to come. But he didn't want to be resented.

Later, when Carole came home after her shift, Kurt relocated to their bedroom to watch television through the evening. Finn said that he could totally come downstairs and they'd put on whatever movie he wanted, but he just wanted to be alone until it was time for his night's rest.

This was stupid, Kurt thought morosely as he realized half the Jeopardy! board had cleared without his attention. Waiting wasn't a big deal. He might appear older by the time they moved—he had no idea if he would stop his apparent aging at sixteen, eighteen, or twenty—but it was already slowing. If he did someday reach what his natural age of twenty might look like, it could be after thirty or forty years since his birth.

Thirty. Forty. They were impossible ages for a teenager in high school to comprehend. But that wasn't him, not any more. He needed to start thinking in much bigger terms.

Two hundred. More.

Waiting for a year and a half was nothing compared to that.

Why, then, couldn't he snap out of this? Why couldn't he get that perspective back? Was it really just the time spent waiting?

"No," Kurt said quietly to himself as he reached into a wing and, with a sharp, painful tug, freed a feather. He pulled its soft form across his palm, matching the cut he'd made to show Finn his blood. He'd found a purpose. He'd found something _real._ His curse had become a blessing. Holding it up, the feather twirled slowly in his vision as he rolled his thumb against the quill.

He'd been a victim, but then he'd felt strong. He'd felt like he could find his real purpose and start to carve out a new life. It wasn't just that he had to wait: it was that he had to wait as a victim again, occupying himself with trivial things because something real was just out of reach. Like the sun, he thought sadly. He could see the stars whenever he wanted, but he couldn't go see the sun.

"Year and a half," he said softly as they moved into the next round of the game. "It's not that long."

He sat half-up, frowning, when Alex Trebek read the next round of categories. That was just perfect, he thought darkly as 'Angels' titled one column. Let it be about the Christian mythos. Let it be about—

 _These two 'bardly' pets of Britain's royal family make their home in Buckingham Palace._

"What are Rosalind and Orlando?" asked the first person to buzz in.

Kurt's shoulders inched together as he pictured those two Angels. Few of their kind had hit their levels of media exposure. The boy's wings were as white as his, but his body was so dark that the brown of his skin seemed to be tinged with blue. The girl, very blonde and with a dove's grey wings, had a Russian accent the few times she'd said anything before a camera. Those were, of course, not their real names.

He wondered if they remembered them.

It was a trainwreck. He couldn't look away. The next question also came from Britain; Rowling's Angel, appropriately enough, had the wings of a snowy owl. The first Angel was found in 1959. The head of state who so famously claimed that Angels should be grateful for their beauty was the emperor of Japan. A Daily Double buried at the bottom asked for a specific label for part of a feather; the contestant said barb but Trebek sadly said they were looking for vane. _Vane._

The next chosen category was Works of Art.

Kurt's breathing began to quicken as he fumbled for the remote in search of absolutely anything else to watch. A CSI rerun was his salvation, not that he had any idea who the characters were or what mystery they were hoping to solve.

He'd been a painting. A pretty little painting to put on display.

He looked different than he had half a year earlier. The lines of his face were more carefully placed. The blue-green of his eyes was clearer and more piercing, and his hair naturally looked as glossy as he'd once pursued with expensive products. The blood didn't just wipe away scars and injuries; he could see that it wiped away anything 'wrong' with a person.

He had to be pretty, he thought shakily, trying to fight off the words. _Pretty._ It was the name for the 'Christian angel of beauty.' A compliment. His name or his humanity. Trapped in a house. Trapped. Trapped.

"Dammit," Kurt angrily muttered as he came back to himself. He'd fought off the last flashback. He was regressing, and over something that shouldn't matter. Watching that question category had been absolutely idiotic.

He was tired again, Kurt thought as he turned off the television and curled up on his father's bed. Barely-there rest came quickly, and he slept too shallowly for dreams until the moment when a gentle hand shook him awake.

"Hey," Burt murmured. "Would've just carried you down, but you've gotten kinda gangly." He said the words with a grin, to lessen any hurtful impact, and nudged him again until he sat up.

"Dad?" Kurt asked, holding off on his question until Carole entered the room, shot him a concerned look, and then continued into the bathroom. "Do I look different?" All of a sudden he hated the idea. To be trapped in that house was one thing. To know that he was trapped there and that he was turning into that pretty little _painting_ , no matter what he wanted, might be too much to bear.

"To me? You look the same as you ever did," Burt promised, which was sweet, but not really what Kurt wanted to hear. "Maybe you could think about the wedding tomorrow?" he asked hopefully. It was still weeks away; that hope had to be that it would be a successful distraction for Kurt, not that he was concerned over a deadline.

"Sure. Hey, you and Carole will get younger," Kurt said, realizing something with a wavering smile. "You could have more kids, if you wanted."

Burt's eyebrows rose. "Hadn't thought of that. I guess... guess we could."

That was something, Kurt thought as he promised his father he was fine. Then he rose to go down to his room, pick up a book, and read until he could once again fall asleep. Finn didn't say anything when he settled in; either he was dreaming or he was scared that he wouldn't be able to find the right words.

Yeah, there was something. They could have kids. A big family from a second chance neither of them would have ever expected. It would be new life in its purest form. He could look forward to that.

Eventually.

And he'd fall asleep again, Kurt thought as he looked out the small window along the ceiling. Only the soft, indistinct light of stars and the moon filtered inside. Sometimes he was free in his dreams. He'd fall asleep eventually.

* * *

"Here," Finn said the next day as he sat down next to Kurt on the couch. A few loosely-organized stacks rested on the coffee table: magazine clippings, website printouts, scribbled notes. He was trying to come up with ideas for the wedding, but his mind was having trouble focusing on anything.

"Here what?" Kurt asked, not looking up.

"Here," Finn said more insistently, and Kurt finally turned to see him forcing an Xbox controller on him. "Take it."

"Why?" Kurt asked blankly as he cradled the smooth plastic form.

"Because I talked to Burt last night about this and he gave me the money." Finn jerked a thumb over his shoulder. A large bag from an electronics outlet sat near the door. "I only had the second one, but in the third one they've got a keyboard. And I know you play piano."

Confused, Kurt squinted at the bag and saw 'Rock Band' just barely visible through the plastic. His mouth thinned. "I said no, Finn."

"Why?" Finn asked. "Look, Burt also gave me the money to sign you up for a Gold account, and that's all ready to go. You just need to pick a username and stuff."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that you can play with people online. I talked to the guys about it. They're totally up for doing some songs. Come on," Finn wheedled. "It'd be fun. Music. With people! Look, I feel guilty and I don't even know why, so just give this a shot, okay?"

"No thanks," Kurt said, tossing aside the controller.

"Okay, you're trying to guilt me or something?" Finn said with a growing hint of irritation. "And if you'd tell me what it's about, then I'd try to fix it, but you keep blowing me off while still treating me like I did something wrong and it's kind of annoying."

"Whatever. Fine," Kurt sighed. It wasn't like he had much else in his life claiming time.

Finn guided him through the process of setting up his account. A username that consisted of an obscure Broadway reference was unsurprisingly available, and soon Kurt was left frowning at the blocky little avatar that supposedly represented him. "I have to play with this?" he asked dubiously.

Looking up from a plastic headset as he adjusted it around his ears, Finn blinked. "Huh? Oh, no. All the games have their own stuff. That's just the basic account, so all your friends will know you're signed in." Then he started spelling Kurt's account name to someone at the far side of that headset. "Puck," he explained as a friend request popped up onscreen. "And here," Finn added, handing over another headset.

"I feel like I'm prepping a fighter jet," Kurt grumbled as he tried to figure out how to get the headset comfortably situated and manage the account that had been thrust upon him. Another friend request appeared; as he accepted it Finn said that it was Mike.

When the third one appeared, Kurt didn't know who it might be. Everything seemed to go very quiet when Finn glanced up again and said, "Artie."

"Hey," said a weak, apologetic voice in Kurt's headset. "Long time no see. Finn talked to everyone and I... didn't really have any excuse for not doing this." When Kurt didn't say anything Artie groaned. "Shit, that came out wrong. Uh, everyone's listening in, so... check your phone in a second."

Kurt mutely picked up his phone and watched texts begin to stream in. The first one was 'sorry' repeated ten times, which was a good way to start, he supposed. Next Artie said that he freaked and so he thought he'd let other people go first. But then he would be last and he _shouldn't_ have been last. He'd have to face up to that failure as a friend when he saw Kurt, and it was easier to put it off than own his cowardice. Each day's delay only made the insult grow, he would have even more to apologize for, and so every time it was simultaneously easier and harder to say 'not today.'

Finally, Artie said that he didn't have an excuse. He'd screwed up. And he was sorry.

Accidental insults. Artie Abrams certainly wasn't the only one of his friends to make one.

 _You want to come over some time?_ Kurt asked after his thumb hesitated over his phone.

 _name the time + place_ Artie quickly replied. _oh wait u said ur house_

Kurt smiled a little. Then Finn loaded the game and his attention was consumed by the need to make some avatar with which to play. "Am I just supposed to make a little cartoon me?" he asked. He frowned as he clicked through the options. "These outfits are all terrible."

Grinning, Finn made a face like he knew he'd hooked him. "You make money and can buy new clothes and instruments and stuff. And you can make him look like whatever you want. Or her. You could make a girl. I'm not judging."

Just barely able to see Finn, as Kurt was looking at him so very sidelong, he continued making his male avatar that did bear more than a slight resemblance to his own appearance. What he used to look like, he corrected with faint sadness. There was no option for 'wings' in the game. "Ready, I suppose."

"Cool," Finn said. "I always take drums or vocals, so if you wanna sing then go ahead and Mike can do keyboard 'cause he's the only other one with Three, or you can play and—"

Kurt zoned out as the meaningless words washed over him. This was complicated. Shouldn't an attempt to cheer him up not exhaust him in the process? "I'll sing, I guess," he said so Finn would stop talking. The described process of playing the keyboard sounded complicated and obnoxious to learn, and Finn assured him that singing was just about hitting the notes.

"Hey guys," Finn said, turning his headset back on. "Mind if we let Kurt pick the first song?" People were assigning themselves to roles: Puck as guitar, Artie as bass, Mike as keyboard. It would be cute, if it wasn't so obviously play-acting at real music. The last thing Kurt needed in his life was more artifice. Finn turned back to Kurt when everyone agreed, grinning proudly, but his mood died at Kurt's hangdog expression. "Will you just give it a shot?"

"All right," Kurt sighed as he started scrolling through his options. Most of them were terrible, or at least poorly suited for his voice. He finally stopped on one and considered it.

"Remember when Mercedes lead that one?" Finn said hopefully. "It was really good. You could do it, I bet."

Shrugging, Kurt made his selection and watched a stage appear on the screen. His eyebrows lifted, just a bit, when he saw a voluptuous woman in a miniscule bustier on one side of his vocalist. "Is that Puck or Artie?" he asked Finn.

Snickering, Finn turned on his headset and said, "She's Artie's. See, I told you that a girl'd be fine."

"My chick's hot, yo!" Artie said back.

"Okay, get ready," Finn said, wielding his drumsticks with great focus.

Kurt nodded as the words 'Imagine – John Lennon' faded from the screen and the camera zoomed in on their digital band. The initial piano line had just started when he realized what a terrible choice he'd made. "Will the guys hear me?"

"No," Finn said. "Don't worry, it's normal to screw up while you get used to things."

That wasn't what he was worried about, Kurt thought as he saw the lyrics bear down upon him.

 _Imagine there's no heaven,_ he sang softly.

Easily done.

 _And the world will be as one_ , halfway through the song, floated from him before the first tear fell. Imagine a world where slavery wasn't the latest fashion trend. Where immortality could be seen as a gift instead of a good investment. Where children weren't shackled with instruments of torture.

 _Imagine no possessions,_ he continued as his voice caught on each word. Not a single belonging but the clothes provided by the cartel. Finn occasionally made worried noises over Kurt's softly agonized singing as his drumsticks tapped on the rubber pads.

 _Imagine all the people, sharing all the world..._ His voice choked and died with a verse to go.

Finn, leaning over, sang as loudly as he could to keep him from failing the song. "Sorry," he said, seeming both apologetic and awed at Kurt's shattered expression. "I... I thought singing would help."

"Wrong song to pick," Kurt said softly and wiped away one last tear. "There really is no heaven. At least for me." At Finn's confusion he added, first checking that his headset was off, "I died. Remember?" A scared, wavering smile was Finn's response, and so Kurt finished with a shrug and said, "Maybe there is for you," as little as he believed his own words. This was all they had, their time right there. All the world had was what it did to each other.

If that were so, then of course there was 'no hell below us.' It already existed there on earth.

"Above us, only sky," Kurt repeated to himself. His heart felt like it wanted to collapse in on itself.

"There's a Huey Lewis song," Finn finally said when the other guys had started asking if anything was wrong. "The one from Back to the Future. That's... that's a happy song. You don't have to, but...."

"Sure," Kurt said, shrugging. The Power of Love; not exactly something he could sing and feel resonate within. Not like the Lennon song that had nearly destroyed him. He'd sing a shallow song with his cartoon avatar, paired off with people he couldn't see. Fun, but fake. That seemed appropriate for the time left in Lima.

"Do you wanna do that again?" Finn asked hopefully when their performance of Everybody Wants to Rule the World ended and Mike announced that he had to bow out for chores. "Did you have fun, Kurt?"

"It was okay," he said, though Finn seemed to want more. "Thanks. Sure. I'll try keyboard next time."

"Okay," Finn said, still a little uncertain. "Well. Glad you liked it?"

Finn was trying, he really was. He was in search of that magic answer that would give Kurt everything he wanted without having to sacrifice anything in return. Only natural. In his place, Kurt would probably be doing the same thing. He'd be whining that they couldn't possibly move to some backwoods _shack_ that was a three hour drive from Boulder or Billings or Boise or... or whatever those towns were out there.

"This was a good idea, Finn," Kurt finally said and watched Finn's whole face light up in a smile. The little brat he'd been owed Finn the benefit of the doubt. "Thank you."

Still, he lingered at a window for a long time. The autumn day was crisp and perfect. The colors of the trees were already intense to his eyes, gold and crimson edging around the green. Though he tried to fight it, a soft piano line clawed back into his head as Kurt's head tilted to look at the bright blue above those leaves.

Above him, only sky.

* * *

"I come with a peace offering," Artie grandly announced the next afternoon. "Actually, two." Though his tone was light, his expression betrayed the nerves he felt. They hadn't seen each other since the end of classes the year before. From the way that Artie's focus kept dragging away from Kurt's face, only to snap back there after wandering to his shoulders, the enormity of everything that had happened during that time clearly weighed heavily on Artie Abrams' mind.

"You didn't have to do that," Kurt said, as he really did understand that inertia's insult had been unintended. But then his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "So... what'd you bring me?"

Grinning widely, Artie wheeled himself into the front hall and allowed Kurt to close the front door. "Okay, I heard that you're on some special diet or something?"

"Something like that," he shrugged.

"So I was gonna swing by the nearest Starbucks, because I know people get crazy without their caffeine, but then Finn said you'd probably think most of the stuff was gross." At Kurt's reluctant acknowledgement of the largely rich and heavy menu, he retrieved a box from his backpack. "So, here! Tea. Tea's good, right? I mean, in theory. I never drink it outside of non-sore throat moments."

An excuse to stir in honey, Kurt thought with a smile, and thanked Artie sincerely. "But you really didn't have to do this."

"It felt like I had to do something," Artie said as his grin faded. "Not just because I screwed up." He followed Kurt's gesture to the living room, and continued once he was situated, "I don't want this to come across wrong, but it's probably going to anyway. It doesn't come close to really comparing, but...." Sadness filled his eyes. "I know what it feels like to have your life change on you."

That he did, Kurt thought. Far more than anyone else he knew, Artie had a chance of understanding one tiny fraction of what he was going through. "I was sixteen," he said quietly. "You're not supposed to have to worry about that any more."

"And it's not like any of us really worried to begin with," Artie agreed with great sympathy. Children going through puberty worried about being squarely in the center of the bell curve lest they suffer in the locker room, or about a pimple on a party night. Those were the sorts of things that could penetrate the perceived invulnerability of youth. Cancer, wings... kids didn't think about those. They could never happen to them. Kids might face the trauma of divorces and loneliness, but they didn't face lives being stolen completely away.

Or most kids didn't, at least. Most kids living with one parent drove to another house for weekend visitations, rather than saying goodbye to a casket in the ground. Most kids watched the auto safety videos in driver's ed and thought that the brutality of the accidents had to be played up for show, rather than remembering what it was like to be pinned inside the wreck that paralyzed them.

Paralyzed.

"Artie," Kurt said, almost numb as he processed what he'd overlooked. "Open your mouth."

"This is weird and kind of inappropriate," Artie said dubiously. His hands clenched around the handles to his chair. "Okay, you're holding a knife. That's new."

Knowing that accidents could happen anywhere, Kurt had started to keep a knife handy in most rooms. One was in his hand now. "My blood," he said. "It heals people."

Artie stared back at him in absolute silence as he processed the full implications. His gaze didn't waver when he said, in a voice as certain as any Kurt had ever heard, "No."

"But Artie—"

"I know I've talked about how I hate the guy who did this to me. But I have a _good life_ , Kurt. I have friends, things I care about. Sometimes," he admitted, "yeah, I'm reminded of how the world's not built with me in mind. And that sucks. But for most of my day I'm busy being Artie Abrams, _awesome dude_. That's okay."

Kurt made a frustrated noise, but Artie continued and cut him off. "If I walk all of a sudden, everyone would want to know why."

"So?"

"So what do you think your life would be like if it gets out that people just have to cut you open to heal whatever they want to fix?" Artie nodded as Kurt's expression fell. "My life is good. I promise. But yours... I really don't think it would be."

Quietly putting the knife back on the coffee table, Kurt slumped against the couch and felt as tired as he had right after Finn had turned down the move. "I knew that," he said after a second. "We made sure to tell Finn not to...." Realizing he'd inadvertently given that away, he groaned. Confirming the question on Artie's face, he said, "I know he probably said he got a little banged up during an accident, but it was worse. A lot worse. He... it was bad."

"You saved his life," Artie guessed, and didn't say anything for a while after Kurt nodded. "Wow. Explains why he's been kinda shaken up."

"I saved his _life_ ," Kurt said, clenching his fist and then letting it fall open. Their time apart barely mattered. Artie was the perfect person to talk to and so any awkwardness vanished. "No one else could have done it at that moment. After the fallout and the stress I began to realize that I'd managed something really amazing. But you're right. I can't actually do anything with it."

When Artie didn't say anything in return, Kurt sighed and stretched his hands above his head. "Did Finn mention anything about a move?"

"Huh? No. You guys are moving?"

"Not yet," Kurt said. "We will after he graduates, I suppose, but not before then." No, Kurt corrected: they would move to some other house in Lima for the interim. The shared space had been a compromise because Finn didn't expect it to last long. And to him, the basement felt like a prison. They might soon sign papers for a new house in Lima, shackling him with great certainty to that year and a half spent waiting.

"Where?"

"I don't know just yet," Kurt admitted. "Somewhere in the Rockies."

"What? Why?" Artie asked with obvious amusement. "Did Neiman Marcus start building wilderness outposts?" Well then, it was good to know that Kurt wasn't the only one starting from an admittedly dismissive view of the region as being caught in the days of Lewis and Clark.

Snorting, Kurt reached for his laptop left abandoned after another day's futile studies. "Staying on top of the latest fashion trends isn't exactly doable when every shirt needs an alteration," he pointed out. "Besides... no matter how perfect an outfit I put together, I know it would never be the first thing anyone saw."

"Point," Artie admitted reluctantly.

"And this is why we're looking there," Kurt continued, turning his screen around to show Artie a population density map. States out west were a pale shell pink dotted with a scant handful of large cities. Ohio, in comparison, was so darkly red that it looked like it was bleeding. "I just hate being around people."

"Vegas is out west," Artie mused. "If you want to keep from being bored, 'cause you've got a whole bunch of years ahead—"

"That doesn't really address the 'I hate being around people' side of things," Kurt pointed out wryly.

"Oh. Oh!" Artie grinned. "Then pick Idaho. I have so many 'u da ho' jokes just waiting to be made." At Kurt's eyeroll he offered, "Did you know South Park's a real place in Colorado? Another excellent option. Highly recommended." Then his tone softened and he said, "I don't blame you. I'd probably want to get away from people, too.

"Hey, Kurt?" Artie eventually continued when he didn't get a response. "So you'll be out in the country near some little town, right?"

"That's the idea," Kurt said. "We have to be close enough to people for my dad to start a new garage."

"Well, you know... I have a car. I wouldn't have to tell anyone I was visiting. No one would recognize me. And I wouldn't have to say anything afterward for months, so there'd be no connection." Artie swallowed, and as his hands rested on his knees Kurt realized the topic to which he'd returned. "You could really...?"

"Yes," Kurt said softly. "Yes I could. It didn't just heal a fresh wound on Finn. He lost old scar tissue."

A flash of awe moved through Artie's eyes, but it was immediately followed with something much darker: deep, soul-crushing guilt. For a moment he'd been happy that Kurt could do that for him, even though it had brought so much suffering with it. Clearing his throat loudly, he continued, "Well, cool. So there's something to look forward to when you're skinning wolverines or whatever."

Kurt actually laughed. "Oh, come _on._ If you're anything like me then the Salt Lake Olympics were the first ones you remembered, and they were in a city. A city that was _not_ overrun with... wolverines."

"No," Artie agreed, managing to grin again. "Just a lot of Osmonds, right?" His hands squeezed his knees again, and with a shaky voice he added, "Thanks, Kurt. For telling me. I'll be careful."

"Sure," Kurt said. "I mean, of course. I just wish I could do more. I wish I could do it _now._ " The moment threatened to overwhelm them with the future promised by their conversation, and so Kurt lightly asked, "So what was your other peace offering?"

"Oh. Oh, right!" Artie reached for the laptop, which Kurt handed over, and he quickly typed in something to a web site. "I know they deleted your Facebook account, which sucks so hardcore. So you wouldn't have seen this stuff, and it is hilarious."

"What stuff?" Kurt asked, and then gawked as Artie turned the screen to face him. Tina, Rachel, and Mercedes had indeed pushed toward creating their social action club, and a Facebook group had been made to accompany it. "Halos?" he sputtered. "They made a logo with halos?"

"Wait, wait," Artie giggled, clicking to a picture in the gallery. "They're wearing them, too." Mercedes actually had her hands clasped together like she was praying.

Groaning, Kurt debated whether the better response was to cry or laugh. He settled on a strangled noise halfway between the two. "Are people actually joining?"

"Not... so much, just yet," Artie admitted. "They're more into this," he said, reclaiming the screen and typing a new search term.

Kurt stared at that fresh page as it loaded. It was a group, tucked away behind privacy screens and membership requirements, that was entirely dedicated to talking about him. No: about 'it.' There was even a terrible photoshop made with a picture from Regionals and some photograph of a bird, even though the wings were completely the wrong shape and they hadn't scaled the fusion anything like correctly. "Oh my God," he said blankly. "They're...."

Artie seemed to realize he'd made a misstep and grabbed for the computer, but Kurt held firmly on and scrolled through the discussions. The house's address was constantly reposted, each time with a reminder to not step onto private property. They discussed sightings through the front window. People reveled in sharing explicit fantasies; most notably his worst bullies, who seemed to take particular delight in openly posting just what they'd do if only the law would allow it.

A fresh set of hands plucked the laptop from his grip. "Dude, what the hell?" Finn quietly asked Artie, who could only apologize. "He didn't need to see this."

"You knew?" Kurt asked Finn, shaken.

"Yeah," Finn said sadly. "Some of us watch to make sure they don't, you know, plan anything. I just I figured you didn't need to hear."

"No," Kurt decided, trying to shake off the grime of that knowledge. "It's good. Seeing all those people talk about me like that... it reminds me of why I need to get the hell out of this town."

Finn's mouth snapped shut and he looked down at the floor.

"Kurt said you're gonna move," Artie said weakly for some attempt at distraction.

"Not me," Finn finally said. "They'll do it when I leave. So I can do prom and stuff."

"Oh," Artie agreed, his tone only strange if one really listened for that note to it. "Sure would suck if you couldn't do that, huh?" His hands tightened around the arms of his chair, and for a second Kurt wondered if he would say anything more. But then he relaxed and turned his attention back to Kurt. "Well, anyway, make sure you find a place that has a good extra bedroom, okay? Because people are going to want to come see you like crazy." He grinned and lightly bumped his fist into Kurt's arm. "You and your wolverines."

Laughing, as much from the confused expression on Finn as from Artie's words, Kurt promised that they would keep that in mind. Artie begged off at that point, probably wanting to leave before he was called any more on his bad Facebook move. When Kurt turned back from the front door and resetting the security system, Finn was still looking at him curiously. "What?"

"Why were you talking about X-Men?"

"What? Oh. We weren't."

"You sure?" Finn asked, clearly picturing Hugh Jackman wielding a pair of tri-tipped claws. "Anyway... sorry you saw that thing on Facebook. I don't know what he was thinking."

"He wasn't," Kurt said, trying to ignore the words he'd seen on that page. He couldn't, though, and sighed his way into asking, "Seriously, how bad is it, Finn?"

"Bad," was all Finn wanted to say, but he saw that Kurt wanted more and relented. "I punched a guy earlier when he wouldn't shut up about you. I mean, people have been seriously gross, but this was just...."

"What?" Kurt boggled. "You punched someone? But the school would have called—"

"I'm kinda untouchable," Finn shrugged, though his shoulders squared proudly off after that. "Like I'm royalty or something. We were worried about recruiting people, but it turns out we're gonna have a ton of people in Glee 'cause they want to be around me. I swear that Figgins thinks your dad has a secret army or something that he'll call on him if he tries to punish me. He just can't figure out how else a guy in Lima would own an Angel, unless he's a secret agent billionaire."

Royalty, huh. Pursing his lips, Kurt sighed and reached for Finn's hands. "Give," he said sharply when Finn tried to pull them back, and checked the knuckles to find some unsurprisingly damaged. Grumbling, he reached for the knife, slit the pad of his index finger, and swiped it across Finn's hand before he could protest.

"You didn't have to do that," Finn said, though he held out that hand like he was studying an engagement ring as he watched the small wounds vanish.

"Gives me something to do while I'm stuck in this house," Kurt shrugged. "Your highness. Sorry. I don't know why I said that." Finn still looked surprised and a bit hurt, so he swallowed his pride and said, "Thank you for trying to shut people up. I had no idea how bad it had gotten."

"Hey, least I can do. Want me to get people joining Rachel's club? I bet I could," Finn said, sounding wholly pleased at the popularity he was describing.

"No," Kurt said after looking at him for a while. "Really, I just want people to stop talking about me. I know they have the best of intentions, but...."

"Got it. Hey!" Finn said brightly. "Burt mentioned something this morning, and now I have an idea."

"What?" Kurt asked suspiciously. 'An idea' and 'Finn Hudson' weren't word pairings that went safely together. And, Kurt admitted, he was someone who had an intimate understanding of bad ideas.

"Trust me," Finn said with the security of someone on top of the world.

* * *

"I still wish you were wearing a seatbelt," Burt said into the large SUV cab as they drove south.

"The windows wouldn't block anyone who was really paying attention," Kurt shrugged. The driver's side seats were folded flat behind his father, leaving Kurt a long, flat surface on which to stretch. Anyone glancing at the Navigator from the road outside would only see the driver, a woman riding shotgun, and their very human son sitting in the seat behind her. "Wouldn't want to cause an accident."

"You have the thickest hair," Finn marveled. Well, Kurt supposed, that _was_ the easiest view of him at the moment. "No, seriously, it's really poofy. Is that what Burt's gonna look like?"

"Nah," Burt chuckled as he turned toward an offramp. "That's his mom right there. I was a lot darker. Kinda coarse."

"I cannot wait to see this," Carole giggled. Then she actually put her hands under her breasts and raised them up an inch or two, grinning as she did. Kurt stared in mingled amusement and horror. He could only be thankful that her position directly in front of Finn meant that he'd been spared the sight of his own mother contemplating a magical war against gravity.

Pushing himself up, Kurt peered over the bottom edge of the window and saw gentle farmlands rolling past. A lake was just visible in the distance, its blue made all the more vibrant by the orange and gold trees that ringed its edges. The sight of that lake—outside, with no neighbors watching—lightened Kurt's heart.

There were still families enjoying the park in autumn, but it was far under capacity. Just a bit of searching turned up a parking place angled away from any of those few other visitors. Burt backed into that spot, killed the ignition, and hopped out to open the back door. From his spot inside the car Kurt watched it swing wide to reveal a stretch of grass, a beach beyond that, and then the lake he'd seen from the road. It was larger than he'd expected, and the wind occasionally formed whitecaps on the small waves.

"What a beautiful day," Carole said happily as she walked around to grab the cooler that had been sliding around near Kurt's feet. Inside were drinks, sandwiches, pasta salad: everything and anything she'd proclaimed was necessary for a proper picnic. The only things not included were cuts of meat for the grills; to compensate, she'd picked up a bag of marshmallows.

With a quick nod to each other, Burt and Finn relocated a picnic table to the grass just behind the car. The three of them sat there while Kurt hung his feet off the back of what had once been his car. It felt like he was truly outside with the hundred and eighty-degree view of the world in front of him, but anyone glancing from the side would only see an unremarkable sliver of his body. "This was a really good idea," he told Finn, who lit up at the praise. "Thanks."

The conversation centered naturally around Finn as they began eating. He was, after all, the one with big football games, tests to take, and Sectionals looming. "Nah," he said when Carole asked him if he and Rachel would ever be back on the mend. "She's got her whole big cause, now. Kurt," he explained when they seemed confused.

"She's the girl who contacted the ACLU," Kurt reminded them, and Burt nodded and seemed pleased.

"But I dunno," Finn said, grinning a little as he pieced together his sandwich and slathered it in mayo. "I'm getting a lot of other girls who seem interested, and once I figure out who I can trust, well, it'll be dating time again."

"Who you can trust?" Burt asked, brow furrowed.

"To bring in the house," Finn said and inclined his head toward the car. "It's important to pick someone who wouldn't take advantage, right? And right now I'm getting all the attention without having to remember a girl's birthday or buy presents or anything. It's kinda awesome." Noting that both parents seemed unimpressed at that explanation, Finn reiterated, "And I do want to be super careful about bringing anyone new into the house. Super careful."

"What songs are you talking about for Sectionals?" Kurt asked, hoping to change the subject to something even remotely less awkward.

Finn snorted. "We're still arguing over where the new people should stand; you think we've picked out songs?"

"Of course," Kurt said wryly. "Whatever was I thinking?"

As Kurt took Finn's conversation with good spirits, so did the adults. The only discomfited reaction came from Finn when the others at the table started discussing where they might end up. Clearly they wanted a hefty chunk of land around them as a buffer against prying eyes, but couldn't decide whether it would be preferable to fix up a house in need of care, buy a small one and add on, or start with a manufactured house and eventually construct their own. Burt and Carole were animated as they discussed the pros and cons of each one, but Finn's enthusiasm dipped as he watched them discuss their life after he'd left them behind.

"You sure you don't want to get out and walk around?" Finn asked after lunch, when Burt and Carole had gone for a stroll along the water and he'd claimed a seat on the car next to Kurt.

For an answer, Kurt pointed through the window at a family playing a few hundred feet down the beach. They surely looked unremarkable to them from a distance, but the strong, broad curve of wings would shine like a beacon under the cloudless sky. "I'm fine, really. Having the lake in front of me's a nice change of scenery, anyway."

"Yeah?" Finn asked, turning to study it. "You wanna come here again? Could be cold, but whatever, we'll wear coats."

"During fall would be nice, but we won't be able to come after that, at least not until spring," Kurt said without thinking. "It's going to be a bad winter."

"Oh, did the weatherman say that?" Finn wondered.

"I... no." Kurt frowned slightly as he looked across the lake. "I just know it will be."

"I get feelings like that sometimes," Finn agreed. "Like when I know a test will be really hard or... but that's not what you mean, is it?" When Kurt shook his head and began to say that he knew it was strange, Finn corrected him with, "No, it's cool. Hey, you were the one talking about Wolverine. And you're a... healing... flying... nature dude, now. You could be a superhero," he added with a grin.

"For the last time," Kurt laughed, "I was not talking about _the_ Wolverine." It was the most trite, obvious question imaginable. That didn't mean it wasn't worth asking. "Finn? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Finn stared out at the small, white-capped waves rolling toward them. "I dunno."

"You must have some ideas," Kurt prompted. "The star player who wins the Commercial And Halftime Show Bowl?" Finn eyed him with amusement. "Well, those parts are much more interesting than the _football_ side of things," Kurt explained, and got a laugh in return.

"I'm never going pro," Finn shrugged. "I mean, Beiste is great. Turns out that with a coach who knows what she's doing, we're actually not terrible. But still, I'm not gonna play in the NFL."

"A teacher?" Kurt tried next. "You seem to fall in and out of idolizing Mr. Schuester, after all."

"Nah," Finn said after some thought. "I mean, have you paid attention to us? High school kids are crazy. Why would you wanna deal with that all day?" Kurt kept trying to suggest things, but each time he shook his head. Eventually Finn landed on, "I just... I want to do something that matters."

"Yeah," Kurt said softly, pulling his knees to his chest. Neither of them would be a superhero. Something vaguely heroic would be nice, though.

Finn's hand rested on the strong curve of flesh and feathers. He didn't stroke, simply left the weight and heat of his hand there. It was comforting without being arousing. Even if Kurt instinctively wanted more, he could satisfy himself with the low-level happiness and contentment that the touch brought. A soft noise of pleasure escaped him and Finn grinned with satisfaction.

"Good?" Finn asked quietly.

Amazed that he was able to control himself even that much while touched, Kurt smiled and nodded. Maybe waiting wouldn't be so bad. Trusting Finn to keep an eye out for any wandering visitors, he relaxed and enjoyed the fleeting marvel of being out in the world, with no fences and nothing but space before him, and still feeling happy.

Eventually Finn's hand fell away and Kurt snapped back to lucidity. It was like swimming out from under a haze of alcohol, a sensation he only vaguely remembered and would never again repeat. Funny, he thought: when he hadn't wanted to be touched, his body fought it off instantly. This was different. He must trust Finn even more than he realized on any conscious level.

"We should have checked back earlier," Carole said, and Kurt realized why Finn had moved his hand. "Finn, did you want to go walk by the lake?"

"Nah," he said. "This was fine. Hey, can we do marshmallows now?" Shortly they'd started a small fire in one of the metal grills dotting the area. Finn began telling Kurt about how they were supposed to be over a campfire, and speared on sharpened sticks. He'd been camping with friends when he was younger and, to hear him talk about it, he was quite the expert.

"Kurt wasn't so much into camping," Burt said wryly, and the others laughed while Kurt admitted that he was right.

Plus, he hadn't had friends.

"Here," Finn said, waving his metal skewer in Kurt's direction. The fire was too far from the car and so he'd taken on the role of toasting one for Kurt. "Try it."

"It's burnt," Kurt said dubiously. Small black dots marred the otherwise golden brown surface.

"Yeah, that makes it good. Come on! It's falling off."

Still distrustful, Kurt pulled it free and popped it in his mouth. Chemicals warred with the admittedly tasty caramelized sugar. Although he wouldn't want another, Kurt decided, it had been a good indulgence. Once.

"I told you you'd like it," Finn said proudly, and then skewered four at once to toast for himself. "See? I know what I'm talking about."

The drive back was smooth and quiet. Stretched out like he was, Kurt dozed off and lost five miles here, three there as the day fell into evening. At home the door was only opened when the garage was securely sealed, and he realized with a sigh that he was once again inside his bubble.

"Don't worry," Finn assured him the next morning. "I'll take care of anyone who gets out of line." He adjusted his letterman jacket proudly and made his journey from bathroom to stairs with a spring in his step. "And hey, like I said, lots of people want to join New Directions! Never have to worry about not having enough people, right?" he said with a grin, and then jogged up the stairs as royalty to meet his loyal subjects.

Right, Kurt thought as he sat on his bed. With a start he realized he'd zoned out and had lost minutes of awareness like on the drive home from the park. There, he'd had the excuse of sleep. Right then... it was simply his mind unable to focus. He had to get out of the basement.

Artie knew about his blood. Tina knew about his suffering in the past. Rachel knew about his suffering now. His father and stepmother-to-be offered comfort and love. Finn seemed to be the only one who had all the pieces of Kurt. With neither the confidence nor energy to spread those pieces of himself further, Kurt assumed it would stay that way.

When he allowed himself to be touched with total trust, he felt happy. That had to make up for the quiet, sad stretches inbetween.

And in the meantime he would stay locked away until the day he said goodbye to that one person.

It was going to be a bad winter.


	8. Chapter 8

Weeks began to tick by. Trivial things filled Kurt's days: book chapters here and there that fled from his mind as soon as they finished. Attempts at writing that were shallow and trite. Daytime television. Texting his friends and hearing about plans for Sectionals.

One time Mercedes mentioned the challenges of trying to fit Artie's chair into the more complex choreography for a larger group. Kurt sighed and stared at that text for a long time before sending one to the boy in question.

Yes, Artie agreed. Things would be different for him in college. But Kurt didn't need to worry. It was okay to wait.

An offer was made on the empty Hudson house and they accepted. As soon as the purchase went through and they were confident in that influx of money, the hunt would begin for a new family home in Lima. Contracts would be signed. They all agreed that renting was too risky; they couldn't give a landlord access to the people inside the house. Even Kurt nodded along with that, as much as he'd prefer to only feel tied down to the end of any given month.

On an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday afternoon, when the wedding was still a week and a half distant, Kurt heard an unexpected voice at the door. "Finn?" he asked, half-rising from the couch. "Is that...?"

"Are you seriously watching a documentary on bridges?" Santana chortled as she walked into the living room and took in the sight on the large television there.

Turning back to it, Kurt made a soft noise of acknowledgment. He hadn't even remembered turning the channel. "Apparently. Did... Brittany want to come by?" he asked, wondering why on earth Santana Lopez was in his house.

As the beep of the armed security system sounded, Finn joined them and slung an arm comfortably around the girl. "I said I'd bring someone over, right?" he said.

"What? Wait." Kurt goggled. "You're dating her?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Tweety Bird." Santana sounded inordinately proud of herself. "I'm a total prize." She saw Finn's look and sighed. "Fine. Don't sound so surprised, _Kurt._ "

"Finn," Kurt said with what he felt was tremendous restraint, "may I please speak with you in the dining room?" The second they'd relocated there, leaving Santana to turn the television to whatever Real Housewives was airing, Kurt spread his hands wide. "Santana. Santana? Really?"

"What's the big deal?" Finn asked.

"The big deal is that she's the girl who's tied up in a whole lot of memories of a ruined first time. I know you tried to play it off as not important? But trust me: I know _bad first times_. Yours might not come close to mine," Kurt laughed darkly, "but why would you set yourself up to repeat it?"

"Well," Finn said thoughtfully, "maybe it's like what you've been doing, with trying to make better memories. If I fall in love with Santana and do it a bunch of times, and they're good, then it'll make that first time good, too!"

Do it a bunch of times. Charming. Kurt grumbled, "Then what about how she insulted me the second she walked in?"

"That hardly counted as an insult," Finn said. "Tweety's cute." He saw Kurt about to protest again and said, "Look, I went through every girl I know and the ones in Glee—from last year—are the only ones I trust to be around you, okay?"

Kurt's lips thinned. Quinn might be disqualified now that she'd stormed out of there in a theological snit, but he'd still put Santana fifth out of five. She was the one who freely admitted she'd fantasized about him and she was always the cruelest in the room. "Not Rachel?"

"Still can't see you," Finn shrugged.

"Tina?"

"Dating Mike, remember?"

"Brittany?" Kurt said almost like a dare. Despite Brittany's insult with the term 'it,' she truly hadn't meant any harm. He found her bewildering but innocuous: Santana's polar opposite.

"She's just... not my type," Finn settled on.

Well, there was a lie if Kurt had ever heard one; she _was_ Finn Hudson with blonde hair and breasts, half the time. "Mercedes?" he asked. "I'd love it if you dated Mercedes. She could be over here every day and I'd be thrilled. You get along great. And she doesn't have bad memories associated with her."

"I just...." Finn frowned as he struggled to find the right words. "Santana seems like the right match for me," he finally said.

"I don't get it. Seems like?"

"Well, you know... super hot, trying to take squad captain away from Quinn...."

"Oh," Kurt said softly. "So Mercedes isn't an option because she's not a skinny Cheerio, and even Brittany's not one because there's no chance she'll be captain. Got it."

"Hey," Finn said, sounding more than a little angry at the characterization of his actions. "Okay, yeah, that, but Santana gets pissed off when people say gross stuff about you. It's awesome. She's totally fearless. Which makes her a perfect match, right?"

"She does?" Kurt asked, still grumpy over Finn's insult to Mercedes.

"Totally! I swear." Seeing Kurt's lingering distrust, Finn put on a calm, reasonable tone. "Look, people are being seriously inappropriate with all of this. We need someone to set the tone. The best thing I can do to make people stop talking about you is to be so incredibly popular that whatever I say, goes."

"Logic straight out of Sun Tzu," Kurt said dryly.

"Uh, sure. Just trust me on this, okay? Haven't I been right on most stuff?" he asked.

Wondering what had happened to that boy who never pushed him and cared most about what Kurt wanted, he shrugged. "Okay. Go be popular with Santana. Make new memories." He wondered if Finn's priorities had changed with the return to campus and the reintroduction of the student body into his life, or in the moment in which he'd faced down death and walked away on a healed leg.

Finn _had_ changed during the school year, but he hardly felt able to call him on it. They weren't huge changes, nor were they particularly harmful. He still woke Kurt before occasional nightmares could worsen, he knew when to ask the right probing questions, and he still.... a blush spread despite Kurt's best efforts. Half the time, memories of his nightmares were wiped away by Finn stroking the wings until he could fall back asleep in the pleasant post-orgasm haze. And he didn't restrict his touch to those bad dreams.

The changes just left him off-balance, was all. They just reminded Kurt of how very big Finn's life grew with each passing day while his own life seemed to wither.

And really: Santana?

When they returned to the living room, the girl in question pointed in the other direction. "You don't mind if we take over the basement, do you?" Santana asked like she only expected one possible answer. "My mom's hanging around my place. Finn said your folks won't show up for a while."

"Stay off my bed," Kurt said, shrugging. They took that as a sign and, giggling, began to make their way downstairs. He frowned. She'd better have taken that seriously. "I mean it!" he yelled after them.

Ten minutes before Burt's typical arrival time, Santana and Finn returned from the basement with matching rumpled and pleased expressions. Kurt thought momentarily about asking for details—it _was_ his room—but realized just as quickly that he didn't want to know. "That'll be one benefit of a new house," he said to himself. "Separate bedrooms."

When he tossed and turned that night, unable to fall asleep, Kurt hadn't anticipated what happened next. Some part of his mind had written off touch as an option. After all, Finn had broken up with Rachel before he'd ever stroked those wings and made Kurt writhe in pleasure. It couldn't possibly be something that would be acceptable within a relationship, and now he seemed to be starting one. Finn wouldn't touch him, clearly.

Except... he did. "You fine with this?" Finn asked, like he usually did. Even after all he'd done, he still made a point of checking for consent for anything but the lightest touches.

"Okay," Kurt said softly. Bliss swept him in the next moment. His entire world lit up like an overexposed photo. Even in that chilly room, the heat from Finn's hands seemed to engulf him.

"You still cool with having some people show up to sing?" Finn asked Kurt lightly as his fingernails worked through the short, sleek feathers growing at the junction of wings and back. When Kurt only managed a groan in return, Finn almost _giggled_ and stopped long enough for a coherent answer.

"Sure," Kurt managed. "Whatever."

"You kinda checked out of the planning process," Finn said, hand setting back into motion, "and I expected you to handle that. So I got some people working on a song this week so we'd have something. That fine?"

Those hands weren't enough. He wanted to press against that blindingly hot body and plead for longer, harder strokes. Left incoherent in his pleasure, Kurt clutched any fabric his grasping fingers could find: bedsheets, a pillowcase, even the loose pajama pants Finn had on.

"Wow, okay," Finn laughed as he adjusted his clothes.

Kurt came hard, without expecting it, and his whole body arched into the sensation. But Finn's hands kept moving and his tone was as casual as ever. "Different rooms'll be nice, I guess, but we should look for a place with a bathroom inbetween them. So we can keep the door open at night, right?"

He wasn't stopping. Kurt's body began to relax with total trust like he had before. The moment seemed to sing in his ears when he did.

"That way I can listen for any nightmares," Finn continued like they were sitting across from each other at the dinner table, rather than with Kurt grinding against the bed as Finn's hands worked him. "Man," he laughed when a long, purposeful stroke brought Kurt to another orgasm. "I wish I could just keep going like this. I'd be _screaming_ by now."

The heat and light enveloping him dimmed as he felt the hands pull away. Kurt didn't hesitate when Finn asked him if he was still okay with everything. Of course he was; in those moments he managed to love the entire world and everything in it. His dopey, awed smile returned with Finn's touch. Soon he was coming dry as Finn casually talked about the logistics of moving into a new house, and again.

"Okay," Finn eventually said. "You look, uh, drunk."

"Uh huh," Kurt said into his pillow, singsong.

Laughing, Finn pried him away from it. "Come on, dude. You'll want to change, right?"

"Uh huh," Kurt repeated, head lolling to the side. Even beyond the lingering effects of the wings, very human endorphins had flooded his system. The world around him seemed warm, fuzzy, and simultaneously enveloping and a thousand miles distant.

Finn tried rolling him over and scooping him up, and looked surprised at how easy it was. "I know you said they hardly weigh anything, but... _you_ hardly weigh anything. Well, that's handy."

"Thanks, Finn," Kurt said as he was deposited in the bathroom and a fresh pair of pants sailed in after him. After cleaning and changing, he, still in his haze, stepped on the scale for the first time in recent memory. He knew he'd dropped weight that he hadn't been able to recover, but still: the wings had to weigh _something._ Even if he knew the source, he irrationally hadn't wanted to see numbers on the scale higher than when he'd left.

Squinting, Kurt stepped off the scale, pushed down on it hard with one foot, and watched the numbers rise. Huh. It seemed to be working. He stepped back on it with his full weight and cocked his head curiously to the side. Eighty-eight pounds.

Still only barely able to feel anything but bliss, he twitched up his shirt and verified that he was still slender but nothing like emaciated, as the reading on the scale would suggest. His face might have subtly changed over the months, but his body certainly _looked_ the same. Probably for the flying, he shrugged, and put down his shirt. Birds barely weighed more than their feathers.

"You doing okay?" Finn laughed when Kurt walked dreamily back toward his bed.

Now that the scale had told him as much, he did feel lighter. "When this comes off," he said, still in his endorphin haze as he clutched his collar, "I'll be able to go _anywhere._ "

"You sure will," Finn agreed. "Maybe right now you should sleep, though."

"'Kay," Kurt agreed as he curled up on his bed. "Finn?" he asked as his eyelids threatened to crash down. Normally he wouldn't question the boy's future, but that extended session of touching had set his id free to roam. Kurt's selfish core didn't want to lose his rock. "Do you really need to leave?"

When no answer came, Kurt forced his eyes back open just enough to take in Finn's quiet consideration. Eventually he answered, "I gotta, right? I have to figure out what I'm supposed to do."

"I like having you around," Kurt said. "I needed you around," he added as he flashed fuzzily back to his first, worst weeks of flashbacks and trauma. "You're really nice like this," he said as his eyes fell closed and dreams came. The last thing he saw was Finn's small, sad smile.

* * *

The next day it was like that quiet, gentle person had never existed. Finn wasn't cruel, of course, but his focus was elsewhere and his consideration was largely diminished. He informed Kurt that Santana had come over to work on choreography, and he expected that it would be all right and that Kurt would watch and give them tips.

"And then I pick her up and twirl her," Finn said as he awkwardly tried to carry out those intentions. His spin was half-hearted and Santana looked unimpressed. "We're just working out the kinks," he apologized when he caught her expression. "Right?"

"We are going to be front and center," Santana said, poking him hard with one finger. "So you'd better make me look good, Hudson."

"True love," Kurt said to himself.

"You're heavier than I expected," Finn said. The words made Kurt choke on his own muffled laughter and turned Santana's glare into a beacon of barely-contained fury. "I mean, you're not fat or anything, but the last person I picked up was Kurt."

Oh, wonderful. Share everything with her, why didn't he? Kurt grumbled to himself as Santana eyed Finn, and then turned her stare to him. "He's lighter than me?" she asked. "Bullshit."

"He is!" Finn insisted. A wide, ridiculous grin appeared as he added, "He's _magic._ "

"How much?" Santana asked, bounding onto the cushion next to Kurt and leaning in. "Spill."

Though Kurt shot Finn a pleading look, Finn only shrugged. Clearly, he saw nothing wrong with Santana being allowed to press him for information. Unwilling to argue the point, as it would likely cause a petty argument with a romantic interest he was _obligated_ to like, Kurt sighed and said, "Just under ninety, last I looked."

She scowled. "No way." Her hand shot out and clasped his wrist, squeezing hard. As Kurt whined and pulled it back, her frown deepened. "You don't feel that skinny."

"Really?" he asked with no shortage of sarcasm. At her pointed look, he countered with a mocking callback to Finn's tone, "I'm magic."

"Huh." She was still clearly unhappy, but changed her vector of research. "So is it true that you can, like, predict the weather and stupid stuff like that?"

How the hell much had Finn been talking about him? Kurt glared at the boy, but he seemed clueless as to why he was receiving that hostility and only looked wounded in return. "Not really," Kurt gritted out. "I just know it's going to be a bad winter. It's very general."

"So you _can_ predict the weather," Santana corrected. "Let's see... are you as good in bed as everyone thinks? Did Finn test you out? 'Cause I'd totally be down with watching—"

"Santana!" Finn gasped. "Geez."

His annoyance morphed into old fear at 'test you out,' and Kurt trembled as he fought to maintain his composure. The phrasing had struck somewhere deep inside, where he still remembered being nothing more than a belonging. She saw that and her expression softened like it had in their first meeting. "Sorry," Santana sighed. "When you joked about the sex stuff with Puck, I figured you were doing better."

"Not so much," Kurt said tightly.

"Hey," Finn said, moving to sit next to Kurt. "Santana, could you go get some drinks from the fridge or something?"

"Sure," she said, still frowning, and left them alone.

"You okay?" Finn asked as his thumb traced a circle at the base of one wing. Comfort and pleasure flowed from the touch in equal measure and Kurt soon found himself actually nuzzling into his shoulder like a shaken young animal. "Sorry," he said quietly after Kurt relaxed against him. "You know she doesn't mean anything bad by it."

"She's Santana," Kurt pointed out in-between the moments of motion that left him speechless. "She always means something bad."

"She's on your side," Finn said. "I swear."

"I am," Santana said, apparently returned from the fridge. "Promise. I'm just not all Barney and Friends about it."

It was difficult to focus through the low-level joy caused by each sure stroke of Finn's thumb, but Kurt was aware of Santana watching his reactions and blushed even as he didn't want the movement to stop. It wasn't strong enough to turn the moment truly sexual, just comforting, but it was intimate and he definitely did not want an audience.

"Here," she said when Finn _finally_ pulled away his hand and Kurt, face still hot, moved to the far end of the couch. "Finn said before that this'd probably be the way to go."

He awkwardly took the offered teacup, feeling the heat of it against his hands, and tried to shift his weight so the slight bulge in his jeans wouldn't be so obvious. Though she wasn't giving any notice to the physical reactions from what Finn had done, it still made Kurt incredibly discomfited for her to be standing there during it and the aftermath. "Thanks," he finally said when he saw that Finn was looking at him expectantly. "You guys should probably practice your dance more."

The next day was a steady stream of texts. Finn seemed devoted to proving that Santana was indeed Kurt's fearless protector. In one class she insulted the sexual prowess of someone who promised she'd fuck 'it' hard enough for the owner to hear. Did they know that was his _dad,_ Kurt wondered in horror, and was simultaneously grateful to Santana for shutting the girl down and humiliated that it was apparently such a public matter.

In the next texts Finn added to that story and Kurt felt his unease grow. That class, with Santana's dramatic stand, had been _Spanish_ class. Mr. Schue's class. She'd spoken up before he could, and although the girl in question had wound up being sent out, Mr. Schue still felt like he needed to make up for letting it be said at all. He was hoping to come with some of the Glee kids to the wedding. Was that all right?

Kurt, frowning a little, sent back a text to Finn saying that he supposed it was. It wasn't that he didn't want to see the man, but he didn't want to have the event turn into a discussion of his personal trauma. Actually, he corrected in a follow-up text, Mr. Schue should come by _before_ the wedding. Then any issues would be worked out beforehand.

The rest of the day was similarly filled with updates on Santana. Finn was determined to prove that she was acceptable, and so Kurt heard about every insult she made, every time her popularity made someone back down, and every bit of evidence to support the notion that she and Finn were turning into the school's royalty, soon to set the laws of acceptable behavior.

When another text came he assumed it was Finn's. Kurt did a double-take at the screen before he realized it was from Mercedes. On any other day he would guess her name before any others, but Finn had been beyond chatty.

No matter how many times he read it, Kurt couldn't figure out what she meant by _Santana gets 1 but not me? :((_ Gets one what? A popular stepbrother-to-be boyfriend? Brow furrowed, he asked for clarification.

 _Check her fb pic_

She must have uploaded a new one, Kurt thought. Booted from the site like he was, he wouldn't have noticed. He grabbed his laptop and browsed to the profile in question. The new picture of Santana Lopez made him stare at the screen in absolute shock.

She was posing with a pristine white flight feather. Its size could only come from one source; nothing of that scale could be some prop from a bird. It trailed between the fingers of one hand while the other pressed its tip to her mouth. She bit at that tip through ruby red lips.

 _I didn't give that to her,_ Kurt finally typed back, numb.

 _oh??_

 _I don't know where she got it_

Thankfully, Mercedes let it rest after a quick acknowledgement; whatever envy she felt had apparently been put to rest. Swallowing hard, Kurt demanded an explanation of Finn and waited as a ball of tension until he replied.

She'd discovered it down in the basement, he explained, and asked Finn if she could take it. It had traveled out under her coat. But that was it: he didn't reply again, no matter how many texts Kurt sent.

Nearly in tears, Kurt threw his phone aside and watched it bounce on the cushions. It was like seeing himself mounted on the wall as a trophy. Those damned things had ruined his life and she was _kissing_ them? When one more text finally came, Kurt had sat mutely in his misery and took a while to realize that his phone was buzzing at him. Finn had just gotten out of practice, he explained, and would be home soon. That was it; his phone once again went silent.

"You told her yes?" Kurt demanded the second Finn walked in the front door.

"What's the big deal?" Finn asked, sounding genuinely confused. "It was just on the floor. You didn't even notice you dropped it. I mean, you've just been throwing out the others that fall off. It's like you're shedding, right? It's trash."

"But she...." His voice choked as Kurt struggled to find an explanation for why it bothered him so much. "She _posed_ with it."

"We're calling people on their shit," Finn insisted, "and it helps if she's at the top of everything, right? Everyone knows I live with you, but she doesn't have any connection but dating me. This makes her look like she knows what she's talking about. Okay? It's helping you."

"I... I just don't...." His voice failed on him again and Kurt began to feel petty and _young_. Why couldn't he articulate what precisely bothered him?

Finn, in comparison, sounded older and absolutely sure of himself. "People are already starting to be scared of saying anything they want, I promise. Pretty soon they'll be scared of coming near the house. We're taking care of everything. You don't have to worry."

Clearly, Finn was working diligently to help Kurt. Everything he was describing was toward that goal. How could he complain, really? Beyond a father and new mother, Finn was the one person Kurt could trust completely. He was the sole person who really saw Kurt, from glory to the worst of his suffering. Right?

"You could have asked," Kurt finally said and cringed at what a brat the words made him sound like.

"Sorry," Finn said. He tried for sympathy, but he clearly agreed somewhat with Kurt's self-assessment.

"Is she coming over?" Kurt asked, and did manage to relax a little when Finn shook his head.

"Gotta get the last wedding bits planned out," Finn said, then returned to his characteristic smile. "Time to make this official, right?"

"Right," Kurt said, trying to match Finn's good mood. "Yes. Let's plan. We'll make this official."

The two of them settled in together and went over the last details of the wedding. Nerves eased with each word, as every moment made Finn seem less like the royalty of William McKinley High School and more like the boy who'd talked with Kurt after the worst nightmares any of their friends had ever known. Of _course_ he could trust Finn. He could trust him completely.

Kurt liked the Finn next to him at that moment a lot more than the one who would pose for featured pages in the yearbook.

* * *

Glacier National Park was the most beautiful thing Kurt had ever seen, even with experience limited solely to Google Image Search and Flickr. Imagining it in person made him shiver. "Wow," he said softly. "I want to live _there._ "

Burt leaned over, saw his search, and chuckled. "Don't think you can live inside a national park, kid."

"Then right next to it," Kurt said, eyes practically sparkling. He still thought a brilliant McQueen or Westwood was a work of art, but this was perfection beyond anything human hands could make. With Burt urging him to look at places that might actually be livable he started to read up on other ranges. Soon Kurt was marveling at shots of the Sawtooths, Wasatch, Bitterroots. Even more than the grandeur of the mountains themselves, he was struck by their emptiness. At most a picture would have a pale line of dirt cutting through the forest or a few remote houses with no neighbors in view.

"Look, Dad," he said, tugging excitedly on Burt's sleeve until he leaned over to see the latest picture filling the laptop screen. Autumn in the Wasatch Range was a hundred layers of blue-green mountains cradling golden aspens. He couldn't find a single sign of humanity in that valley, not even a road. "It would be so pretty from the air."

"Yeah it would," Burt said, grinning with an odd sort of pride.

"Can I have a room with big windows?" he asked, still enraptured by the scenery on his monitor.

"Course you can." Burt started laughing quietly after a few seconds, and shook his head with amusement when Kurt asked him what was so funny. "You are. Here I was, telling them how you hated camping, and now you're practically drooling over places out in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, _look_ ," Kurt insisted, gesturing at mountain crags cutting through a blanket of snow. "It's gorgeous. And...." Squinting with the effort of searching through his memory, he finally asked, "Did we actually try camping? Because I don't remember that at all."

"Not so much," Burt chuckled. "We set up a tent in the backyard once, so you could try sleeping under the stars. Key word: once."

"Not a fan?" Kurt giggled.

"We spent the next week hearing about evil mosquitoes. And how you were convinced that our backyard was filled with rattlesnakes, until I checked and figured out that you'd seen the garden hose lying in the grass when you went in to use the bathroom." Nostalgia made him smile, then sigh. "Can still remember that all crystal-clear, but man, it seems like a million years ago."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, placing his hands on his father's shoulder and then resting his chin on them. "What do you think Mom would say?"

"About what?"

"Everything."

"I think she would say," Burt said carefully, "that the most important thing in the world is that you're home and safe. And that she wants you to be happy more than anything."

It was the expected answer, but it was still nice to hear. "We're going to leave her, though," Kurt said quietly. "It doesn't seem right."

"One day," Burt promised, "you'll be able to come back _on your own_ and tell her that everything worked out for you."

He sounded so damned confident. Kurt actually found it possible to believe him because of that certainty. "Do you think she'd like Carole?"

Burt laughed. "Well, that depends. If she's around to give her opinion, then she'd probably be pretty mad that I'm getting married next week," he began with a grin. The grin softened and he continued, "But for how you were asking... yeah. Carole's good for me, she's good for you, and so I think she'd like her a lot."

"I'm really glad she's coming with us," Kurt said as he pictured holidays and summer meals on a deck. Though the house and its setting was vague and indistinct, he could clearly picture the emotions that would grow within it.

"Me too."

"And you really should have more kids," Kurt decided. "It'd be fun, to have them around." His tone brightened. "You know you'd always have a babysitter handy."

Burt slung his arm around Kurt's torso to give him a loose hug. "We'll get settled in and we'll see. But I don't want you setting your sights on being our babysitter, okay? I want you to figure out your dreams, I want you to...." Burt's body slumped under where Kurt leaned on him. He sounded sad when he continued, "One day, and I know you might have to wait for a while, I want you to find someone. Just 'cause you look like a teenager doesn't mean I want you stuck playing that role."

Suddenly self-conscious about what had been going on in the basement, even though Kurt wasn't deluding himself into thinking Finn was 'someone,' his jaw clenched. He didn't trust any words that might come and so only nodded.

"This'll be a change," Burt continued. "It's just been the two of us for a long time. Now we're heading for a new house, new family...." He'd turned to look at Kurt when he said that, and his words trailed off. "Wow," he said softly.

"What?"

"Just realized something." Having to swallow a few times, he finally continued, "I'm used to seeing those on you. That's my new normal."

"Took this long, huh?" Kurt asked, smiling lopsidedly. "No, I know the feeling. At first I avoided mirrors. Then I realized I _had_ to look, but I tried to pretend they weren't there...." And then he'd been found, captured, and enslaved. Kurt decided to skip over that part of the process. Shrugging, he lightly finished, "Now I check them the same as my hair, and make sure everything's laying right. Must look perfect, after all, even if my audience is rather limited."

"Well, that's good," Burt decided. "Right?"

"Probably," Kurt said. "I mean, I'm sure it is. It's not like they're going anywhere, so I just need to adapt and roll with that new future." He brushed at one wing when he said that, like he wasn't talking about anything but his appearance. It was a good motto, one that he really should keep in mind for all parts of his life. It was just a lot easier to think about morning grooming than the impossibility of a family of his own. Adoption agencies would never say yes to an 'it' without a birth certificate.

"Yeah," Burt finally said. "So you're looking forward to the wedding?"

He cared less about the event itself than its outcome, but Kurt nodded. "I really am."

"Good. It'll be nice to make this all for real." Burt sat there for a while before continuing, "I talked to those people at the ACLU. Since they practically painted themselves as our bodyguards, I figured it couldn't hurt to see if they'd offer a little more help."

Help? Kurt frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to need permits to start a business in a new state, we'll be buying a house without being there in person to see and sign things... they want to help," Burt said, but he clearly hadn't said all he wanted to. "Sounds like we're the pet project of a bunch of people there. They know it's not what they normally do, but they just want to see us make it out of everything stronger than ever."

"That does sound helpful," Kurt said warily.

"Yeah." Burt squeezed him again before continuing. "I talked to them about drawing up a will."

Kurt tensed. "What?"

"It's all official. Anything happens to me, you're Carole's." He saw the protest and spoke over Kurt, "I know you'd drain yourself dry to keep me safe. And you could probably pull me back from just about anything, like what you did to Finn. But what happens if... if I get hit driving home from work and something goes through my head?"

"Dad," Kurt said, feeling ice cold as his blood drained from his face. "Don't even say that." But it only made sense. He had no idea what the alternative would be. Would he naturally stay within the family as property, revert to his previous owner, or be up for grabs for the first person to find and claim the controller? Kurt didn't have the slightest idea what the law said for people who hadn't clarified matters with a contract.

"This is too big a thing to leave to chance. Okay?"

"I know that," Kurt protested. "I do. I just don't want to hear you talk about it."

"Fair enough," Burt said. "Just... we've gotta look at all the angles. We've gotta get used to all of this. Gotta get used to our new normal."

"Right," Kurt said as he thought on how, if he woke up the next morning with nothing but skin between his shoulder blades, they would both think that he looked wrong. "Our new normal."

* * *

They'd planned to spend their last Sunday alone in a quiet, comfortable string of DVDs and old home videos. Carole had taken Finn out for a similar Hudson-only spectacular, but their options were far more open than what the Hummels could manage. Carole talked about bowling, catching the latest movie releases... a dozen different ideas that all relied upon being in public without being the center of attention with every step.

Because of that plan, it was a surprise when the bell rang. Kurt frowned and rose. "Maybe their garage door opener isn't working?" he mused. Their house had plenty of visitors, true, but anyone who actually dared to come up to the door called ahead first.

"Let me know who it is," Burt called after him with faint concern.

Palms flat against the door, Kurt looked through the peephole. Through the tiny window, made absurd by the fisheye lens, he saw a thick cluster of light brown curls.

Of course; it was the weekend. It would be the normal time for a teacher to visit, and the last weekend before the wedding. "It's Mr. Schuester," he called. Through the door he could see the man's head jerk up and a smile form.

"Your old choir teacher?" Burt asked uncertainly.

"Yes," Kurt said, and decided to swing open the door before he had to begin explaining about Finn's text messages. "Hi, Mr. Schue."

Will Schuester froze when he saw him. The smile on his face looked strained and entirely unnatural, but he clung to it like it was Rose's impromptu liferaft at the end of Titanic. "Kurt, hey. You're, uh, looking good." His smile warped into a grimace. "I mean. Healthy. Happy?"

"Want to come in?" Kurt asked rather than respond to the fumbled greeting. Will seemed to appreciate that and stepped gladly inside as Kurt closed the door behind him. "Hey, Dad," he said as he returned to the living room. "He came by to say hi."

"Hey," Burt said, nodding at the man. "Nice of you to check on him, though I didn't know you were coming over," he added pointedly to Kurt.

"Oh, sorry," Will said. "Finn said today'd be good... I figured he told you."

"No," Kurt said, adding good-naturedly, "but, you know: Finn."

"Yeah," Burt half-laughed. He was oddly tense, still. Part of it had to be the interrupted day together; it was supposed to be their time. Kurt guessed the other part of it had to do with the particular visitor. Their rare meetings hadn't gone well. Their most memorable encounter remained a threat to sue after accusations of discrimination. "We were just having some family time together before the wedding," he added.

"Sorry," Will said. "I really didn't know. Finn said it'd be... well, never mind. I'll be quick and then get out of your hair, okay? Just want to promise you—and this includes you, Mr. Hummel—that we've got some great music planned for your wedding. We know it's small, and we're going low-key."

Burt thanked him, still gruff, and Will continued, "We're happy to do it. More than happy. The families of two of our kids getting married? That's pretty neat." He saw the protest and beat Kurt to the punch. "Yes, you still count. Absolutely."

"Thanks," Kurt said. He appreciated the sentiment, no matter how false a foundation it rested upon.

Like he needed to find some decent excuse to keep intruding on their day, Will awkwardly continued, "I just want to let you know, Kurt, that I won't be allowing any of that talk in my class. And I'll try to shut it down in the halls."

Damn. Grimacing, Kurt risked a sidelong glance at his father and saw that his radar had been unsurprisingly triggered by the words. "What sort of talk?" Burt asked, frowning.

Sounding uncertain at his tone, Will answered, "Students are describing what they would... do. To Kurt. Pretty explicitly."

"We put in a security system because we heard about that a while back, but it's still going on? Enough that a teacher came by?" Burt's attention turned to Kurt. "You don't look surprised. Did you know this?"

"Yeah," Kurt said, "but they're only words...."

The reassurance clearly failed to do its job. Burt's attention zeroed in entirely on the other adult. "You think they'd try anything?"

"I don't know," Will admitted. "The kids are pretty good about toning themselves down when adults come near, but I hear rumors that they might start swinging by here."

"What?" Burt demanded, half-standing.

"Dad!" Kurt said, trying to push him back down. "Don't worry. No one's done anything. They just stand and look from the sidewalk. It's all stupid plans online." No, he immediately realized. That hadn't been the right way to go. "I mean...."

"Who?" Burt demanded. When Kurt hesitated he almost yelled, "Who?"

"Mostly jocks," Kurt mumbled. "And Cheerios. They've never come on our property."

"And you didn't think I needed to know this?" Burt asked, clearly angry and just barely holding it in check. "You didn't think I needed to know that when you told me to buy a system, it was for people actually coming to our house? Watching you? Actually making _plans_?"

Kurt looked desperately at Will, but his old teacher was clearly siding with his father. He thought Kurt should have told Burt everything, even though nothing was going to happen in his daily life except endless boredom.

"We're moving," Burt decided. "We're not waiting."

Drawing a hand across his face, Kurt tried to fight off the waves of dizziness. "Dad, we can't," he reminded him. "Not until Finn graduates."

"He will understand," Burt said in a tone that brooked no argument.

He _couldn't_ take Finn's life away from him. Kurt knew that every time he caught the slightest hint of recrimination in the boy's face, he would feel like a cartel hunter with dogs and a collar in hand. He couldn't take that guilt. It would eat away at his soul like his own blood was eating away at the numbers on the scale. "Finn's fighting for me!" Kurt said desperately.

"What?" Burt asked as his anger seemed to stop growing and hold steady.

"He's calling people on their behavior," Kurt said, smiling so broadly it hurt and nodding along with his words. "He's stepping up and being a leader for all of this. He even punched someone who really went over the line," Kurt added when Burt seemed to want more.

"I never heard about that," Burt finally said. "School would've called me."

"Finn said that Figgins is scared of you. He thinks that if you have me, then you must be a secret Bond villain or something." Kurt clasped one hand in his and squeezed hard. "I promise. He's keeping an eye on everything. He's taking it very seriously."

"That true, Schuester?" Burt finally asked, not looking away from Kurt.

"He's really wielding his social capital," Will said. "I mean... yes. It's true. And when that girl said those things in my class, Santana cut her off before I even got a chance. Finn's girlfriend?" he added when Burt seemed confused.

"See, Dad?" Kurt said. "They're both looking out for me. They're both being wonderful and perfect and _please_ don't force Finn to move, _please._ "

"You trust that girl, too?" Burt asked.

Not at all. "Of course. I swear. She's great." She stole part of his body and posed with it as a trophy. "Yay for Santana," Kurt finished weakly. When Burt seemed to want more, he ventured, "I said it was jocks and Cheerios, right? Finn's a jock! The quarterback. He's in a good position to talk to them. And Santana, well, she's trying to get squad captain. So she could tell the Cheerios to stop coming by." A sickly grin grew. "All makes sense, right?"

"I don't know," Burt finally said.

"At the wedding you'll see Santana and Brittany," he said, catching Will's eye to indicate that whatever the attendance plan might currently be, he expected it to be altered. "And Mike and Puck. Cheerios and football players. They'll all help out. You won't need to worry. I'll be fine until we move."

Please, he repeated to himself as Burt finally pulled away his hand and considered the words he'd heard. Please don't turn him into the person that ruined Finn's life. "Finn really punched a kid?" Burt asked, grinning just a bit.

Relief flooded Kurt and he nodded. "Hard," he said. "Skin split on the knuckles and everything. No one will mess with him. And Santana is terrifying, and she promised me that she's completely on my side."

"If anything like this starts up again," Burt relented, and Kurt relaxed, "then you tell me up front. You got it? I don't want to hear this on accident, when Finn's been the one looking out for you and I had no idea those people were coming by."

"Absolutely, Dad," Kurt said, nodding again like a bobblehead. "You've got it."

"Glad you stopped by, Schuester," Burt said, turning his attention to the man.

"So am I," Will said pointedly. "You shouldn't hide this sort of thing from your dad, Kurt. You're very lucky you have your friends looking out for you in the meantime, but he deserves to know all of this."

Fighting back the image of Santana posing with that feather, Kurt promised that he knew how very lucky he was. Will said again that he'd have everything ready for the wedding, insisted that Kurt was looking very healthy and happy, and then said his goodbyes and left them to their evening.

Kurt took his time locking the door and resetting the system, because he knew an unhappy father was waiting for him when he returned. "Dad...."

"Don't 'Dad' me, Kurt." Burt shook his head. "Here I am, getting a will set up so I can make sure you're safe, and I don't even know a bunch of sick thugs are hanging around staring at you all day. How'm I supposed to look out for you if I don't know what's going on? From how you've talked, it sounded like things were getting better at that school, not worse."

"I just... I didn't...." Kurt sighed. There was no way to win that argument, and he realized he might as well just accept one more defeat on the pile that was his life. "I don't have an excuse. I'm sorry."

"I've let you take on way too much over the years," Burt said. "But now you're going to have two parents, and you are allowed to act like a kid who needs his mom and dad. Okay?"

"Thought you didn't want me being a teenager forever," Kurt said flippantly, before he realized what a bad idea that was. "Sorry," he mumbled again when anger flashed in Burt's eyes.

"Now," Burt said very seriously, "is there anything else you want to tell me?"

He felt irrationally scared of Santana Lopez, and was sure that she still saw him as some sort of object. He _needed_ to trust Finn like he needed to eat, but the boy was making it hard. His body was still changing and he didn't know when it would stop. Trapped in the house like that, he was losing chunks of time into his own misery and it would only get worse the longer it went on. "No."

"Kurt. There has to be something. You hide things, I know you do, and—"

"I miss Mercedes," Kurt finally said, grabbing for the first and easiest option that his father might accept. "She comes over here, but I miss how I'd go over there and just... waste time on doing absolutely nothing."

"Why didn't you say that before?" Burt wondered. "Well, okay... okay, here's an idea. Just after the wedding, Finn's got a big game. I wasn't gonna go because the school's more than a mile away, but she lives pretty close to it, right?" At Kurt's nod he continued, "Her folks are about the only ones I'd trust. What would you say to going over to her house while Carole and I hit the game?"

"Sounds fun," Kurt said, relieved that the distraction was a success. "Yeah, great idea. Let's do that. She'll be thrilled."

"Okay then," Burt said, pulling him back down to the couch. "Then you'll go over to see Mercedes and have some fun. That'll be good for you." He lifted the remote and restarted the movie. But it was a trick, and no sooner had Kurt relaxed again than Burt said, "I don't want you to hide things from me. Seeing you taken was the worst moment of my life. It still wakes me up some nights. And I couldn't do a damn thing then."

What could he do if Kurt told him that he'd been driven to try to mutilate his body to duck away from his owner's attention? If he heard that Kurt's kneejerk 'not as bad as it could have been' was actually a horrific, traumatizing marathon of ignored sexual consent? If his son, the most important person in his life, had _died_? He couldn't do anything. His father could no sooner fix those things than Kurt could force his body to act like a human's.

In the light of day, Kurt actually found it frightening that he weighed what he had as a child.

If Burt couldn't actually fix anything, then there didn't seem to be any point in sharing. His father _fixed_ things: a car with a noisy engine, a denied chance to audition. He wasn't good with feelings and he was even worse with being faced with a problem too large to change.

"I have bad dreams sometimes," Kurt said. Again, he knew that offering something little was the smart way to go. An outright denial would only make him look suspicious. "But it's okay. Finn hears and he wakes me up."

"That kid's all right," Burt smiled. "Maybe we'll look for a place with one of those bathrooms between a couple of bedrooms, huh? So the doors can be open?"

"Finn thought the same thing," Kurt said. "Must be a good idea, huh?"

"Must be," Burt said. He laughed a bit and Kurt knew the worst was truly over. "Hey, look," he said, pointing at the screen as a young Kurt yelped and bounded away from something in the yard. "Those snakes must come out in the middle of the day, too," he snickered.

Kurt smiled at the ridiculous behavior of his younger self, but he also wondered if a real snake would ever try to bite him. _Don't worry,_ he thought to the child on the screen. _You don't have to be afraid of animals._ He just had to be afraid of people.

"Two-forty!" Finn crowed when he returned that night. "I am the champion bowler."

"We won't talk about how I did," Carole said wryly when she followed him in. "It was an off night and we'll leave it at that."

"Hey, Finn," Burt said. "Your teacher stopped by. Schuester? Yeah." Pride painted Burt's face as he continued, "He said you've been looking out for Kurt. Really stepping up. Being a leader at that school."

Finn's chest puffed up like some oversized rooster. "Yeah, well, that was the idea."

"Said your girlfriend's been doing a good job, too." He saw Carole's confusion and added, "Uh, what's the name. That guitarist? Santana." As she nudged Finn and said that she didn't know he'd started dating someone, Burt continued, "Next time you talk to that girl, you let her know how much I appreciate it. And you tell her that she is welcome over here at any time, any day of the week. Right, Kurt?"

"Of course," he said after swallowing down his nerves.

"Cool," Finn said happily. "I'm gonna make some popcorn, anyone want some?"

Determined to participate, or at least distract himself from the image of Santana Lopez stalking him to pose for pictures with every bit of him she could tear off, Kurt asked, "Real, or the stuff from a bag?"

"Popcorn only comes from a bag," Finn said blankly, and Kurt gave up on the idea of a light snack with just a bare hint of seasoning. "You still want some?"

Finn chose the movie to end the night. Burt seemed willing to give him the world after hearing about what he'd done for Kurt, and Carole was similarly proud after she'd been caught up. For his part, Finn was only too happy to bask in their adulation. He grinned at Kurt whenever the praise became particularly effusive and Kurt forced himself to smile back.

"I had the best idea," Finn said when they'd gone downstairs. "The _best._ Santana got so much cred from her new picture, right? People are totally listening to her. It's great. So what I was thinking is: I take a picture with _you._ "

"What?" Kurt asked in a tiny voice.

"It'll be awesome! For the wedding, right? Letting everyone know this is _family_ you'd be messing with, and you don't mess with Finn Hudson's family." He actually flexed, looking more than a little ridiculous, and finished, "And I'm already getting people to shut their mouths. This can only help."

Help Kurt, or help Finn? "I don't... I... all right," Kurt acquiesced when arguments didn't come. Trying to find the right way to protest Finn's actions left him so tired. After all he'd done, it didn't feel like he was allowed to take issue with anything Finn did. It was getting so hard to explain what was going on between them, and was so much easier to just do what he was told.

Kurt shook his head at his choice of words. What he was asked. Finn wasn't telling him to do anything. "No," he suggested as he struggled out from his daze, "don't use your phone. Those pictures always look terrible," he said, picturing the countless profile pictures where someone's arm was attached to one side of the frame. "If we use the camera on my laptop then we won't have to hold anything."

"Good idea," Finn said brightly. He watched with obvious satisfaction as Kurt fiddled with the lighting, turning lamps this way and that, until the illumination in the basement couldn't be further improved. "Okay, come here. Can you, like, fluff them out or something?"

"Wait," Kurt said, shaking off his hesitation. "It's not ready. I have to bring up Photo Booth."

A wild valley in the Wasatch Range was still front and center on the screen. Open. Empty. Safe. Forcing himself to close that picture, Kurt instead brought up the preview for the photo window and returned to Finn's side. When he turned, their faces were moving in that small window. The sight of himself made Kurt freeze. He was used to seeing himself in the mirror, but something about a video pushed him into a fresh third-person analysis of the boy with the wings.

It wasn't just the things on his back. His features were clearly different. He'd acknowledged those changes on some surface level, but they'd blended together in the mirrror from day to day. The shock of seeing himself on video was a bucket of cold water.

 _Narnia_ , Kurt thought with a shiver. The spell Lucy had discovered that would improve her beauty at a terrible cost. She'd be herself, but better. His body looked polished like a fine diamond: every cut made with purpose, and every imperfection removed. Next to him Finn was normal, meaning that he looked clumsy and coarse. Though Finn didn't seem to notice the comparison, it made Kurt tremble at how much he'd changed. Kurt Hummel was independent and quick-witted, but he was _not_ attractive; he knew that like his own birthday. He did a good job of making up for his countless flaws with styling and a perfect wardrobe, but he did not look like that person in the camera.

"It helps if you smile," Finn said in a stage whisper.

Kurt did, and when he saw himself he began to understand the prices paid by impossibly rich owners. "I look different," he finally said when they'd taken pictures and Finn had declared himself satisfied with one.

"You look awesome," Finn countered, and happily uploaded his new profile picture to Facebook. His arm stretched across Kurt's shoulders; in return, a wing curled its feathers around Finn's other side. The closeness required by the camera's frame made them look inseparable. "Santana couldn't stop talking about it."

"Oh," Kurt said shakily, and went to pick out his sleeping clothes.

"Hey, thanks for saying she can come over whenever!" Finn added. "I bet that'll totally help her be popular."

"I was looking at pictures earlier," Kurt finally said, pajamas clutched in a white-knuckle grip. "Mountains. Places with no people. I can't wait."

"Yeah, that'll be great for you," Finn agreed, and claimed the bathroom before Kurt could. He'd be quick, Finn argued, and Kurt was anything but.

"I wanted to tell my dad earlier," Kurt said the second Finn stepped out. "About things. About... about how I died. But I couldn't. I couldn't do that to him. But I thought about it, and now it's just...." The tension of a thousand different sources piled into that one point. Normally he didn't really fret about his death, but at the moment it was a convenient focus. "I can still see the ground coming at me, and then it _hurts_ —"

"Hey," Finn said, pulling him close. "Hey. Hey. Okay. I'm here."

"Now you are," Kurt agreed softly. Should he tell Finn how hard he'd fought to keep his high school life in order? No, he hadn't done that for credit. "Do you want to look at pictures?" he asked hopefully. "I found really pretty places earlier."

Though Finn seemed confused at the topic changes, he nodded. "Sure. You can tell me all about what you want, right?"

Kurt swallowed hard as he pulled away and toward his laptop. "Sort of," he said softly, and thought of the picture of him and Finn being seen by everyone he'd once known.


	9. Chapter 9

Kurt expected something huge that week. Shouldn't the release of his face into the wilds of William McKinley spark terrible behavior there? Even sighting him through a shaded living room window was enough to be discussed in that terrible Facebook group. An actual, consensual photograph of most of his body should be like catnip. No, like raw meat landing in the middle of lions, he corrected darkly, and kept texting Mercedes, Artie, and Tina to demand any updates. Finn's only comment each night was that he had everything handled, which was spectacularly unhelpful.

When Tina promised yet again that everything was holding steady, Kurt shrugged and started going down his wedding checklist. The officiant had been verified. (It took quite a lot of interviews, he understood, before Burt and Carole trusted someone.) The rental companies assured him they would deliver on Saturday morning, as did the florist. Their guests, as small a group as it was, had replied. Only the music and food remained, and Finn was tackling the soundtrack.

"I hope you appreciate this, Dad," Kurt said wryly as he wrote up his shopping list and added two turkey breasts to its end. He knew there was no way that Carole Hudson would be happy with a purely vegetarian menu, let alone Burt Hummel, but that didn't mean he planned to make a habit out of handling dead flesh. What a joyous occasion, he dryly thought, and tapped his pen on the table when he'd finished writing out all his needed ingredients.

God, his life was boring.

 _Seriously nothing?_ he sent to Mercedes, still disbelieving that the school was quiet.

 _Just people being stupid like normal :P :P the guy who got your old locker is trying to be a star or something_

That made him snort, and Kurt let it go. Well, if that was as bad as it was getting... he shrugged. Maybe, as hard as it was to believe, people's cruelty had limits. After all, Santana's visits that week were filled with inappropriate comments but she steered clear of anything overtly sexual. Even though such a thing was an impossibility, he'd been sold back to his father for pocket change. Of course, Kurt added darkly, that sale had been after quite an exploration of human depravity. Maybe he was hoping for too much.

Eventually he ambled to his computer with the intent to break through a mental block seemingly composed of solid titanium. Instead he wound up roaming through small mountain towns on Google Earth, tilting the view nearly flat and imagining traveling over it at... at however fast he could move. When he forced himself to refocus, the only title that entered his mind for a writing exercise was I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

One, he refused to rip off someone else's title. Two, he refused to use _that._

"You have to go to the grocery store right now," he pleaded with Finn the second the boy walked in.

"You've got all day tomorrow to cook, right?" Finn reassured him. "I can head back out in a couple of hours."

"I watched three episodes of Cops today," Kurt replied.

Though he didn't seem to understand, Finn walked right back out the door. Kurt prepared brining trays and chopped herbs for marinades in the meantime, and then checked a recipe for the oven's proper temperature. "Just put them down on the counter," he told Finn when he heard his return.

"You don't need to bother with that," Finn told him as he gestured to the apple spice cake recipe Kurt was reading. "You can just make something from a box!" he continued happily, and set several boxes of Duncan Hines on the counter.

Kurt looked at them, looked at Finn, and asked, "Really? _Really?_ "

"What?"

Three identical labels for angel food cake stared back at him.

"You got _that_ kind?" Kurt added pointedly.

"Huh?" Finn seemed to clue in and laughed. "Uh, I just like it. Sorry. I got strawberries and Cool Whip and everything."

Compromise was at the heart of any relationship, Kurt told himself. "I have cream in the fridge. Why don't you start baking that," he suggested, "for us to have around the house. And I'll make fresh whipped cream to go with it." He didn't know what exactly made up Cool Whip. If he'd just been able to tolerate the chemicals in a single marshmallow, he suspected trying some of that white fluff would taste like licking an oil refinery.

His evening became a juggling session between prepping savory foods, helping Finn with his cake, and making the real wedding cake and its glaze. Kurt found himself enjoying the stress. It was oddly stimulating to actually have multiple demands on his attention, and he was even able to hurry through the disgusting process of _touching_ the turkey without it feeling like too awful a contamination. "Oh, shut up," he said good-naturedly when Finn began mocking his pained expressions. "You're the one who's going to be eating a corpse."

"And it'll taste _awesome_ ," Finn agreed, and they laughed.

"They're looking at us," Kurt murmured as he poured a bit of vanilla extract into the cream and went to work. Sure enough, Burt and Carole were a pleased, emotional audience as they watched the two boys work side-by-side in the kitchen. "This time tomorrow," Kurt mused as he set aside the bowl of whipped cream and began dicing vegetables for a soup that would rest overnight.

"This time tomorrow what?" Finn asked, and then caught up. "Hey, yeah. All official. And you... have this big dorky grin on your face."

"I'm having _fun_ ," Kurt marveled. "I'm doing something, and for a big event that matters. It feels so great."

"Well, good," Finn said, and smiled back. In that moment it was like the months of school had never happened. It was August, not the end of October, and he was the sweet confidante who could be trusted completely. "Hey," he continued, turning to face their parents. "What're you guys doing for a honeymoon?"

"Uh, well...." Carole began awkwardly.

"Whoa," Finn instantly said, drawing back. "Never mind. Don't want to know."

Burt rolled his eyes, chuckling. "Don't think she was gonna go that route with the conversation. There's just not much point in taking a trip within a mile, y'know? And if it's not just us going, wouldn't really be a honeymoon."

"Oh, right," Finn said as his expression fell. He turned to Kurt and said, tremendously apologetic, "Sorry." His fear over having ruined the good mood was palpable.

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said, and Finn relaxed. "I figured as much."

"Maybe you could stay with a friend, though," Carole suggested as a grin spread. "Both of you. Get out of the house for a night."

"Ew," Finn said, and focused obsessively on the oven timer.

Kurt forced back laughter, as much from Finn's reaction as from his father's. Yes, Carole was certainly more open about some things. He grabbed a knife, beamed at her as he dimpled his thumb with its blade, and asked, "Want a facelift for the wedding?"

"Kurt," Burt protested, but Carole held up a hand and he fumed in silence.

"I would look good for the pictures," she said with obvious consideration. Biting once at her lip, she then said impishly, "Let's go for it. Just a little."

"This house is so weird," Finn said as Kurt drove the knife into his thumb and warned Carole not to take too much. A radiant bride was one thing; Carole Hudson accidentally reverting to age thirty would draw a little too much attention.

Instantly finding the nearest reflective surface when she'd swallowed down a mouthful of golden blood, Carole watched in fascination as tiny lines smoothed away and her skin tightened. "Wow," she marveled, prodding at her cheeks. "You're gonna have a hot wife," she said to Burt.

He chuckled back, "Don't need to lose a few years for that."

"Stop saying my mom is hot," Finn groaned, returning his attention to the oven.

As Kurt washed and dried his thumb, he slowly asked, "What's happening with names?" He saw everyone's confusion. "Carole, when the three of us move, we're pretending you're my real mom. I mean, birth mom. Are you changing your name?"

"Oh," she said. "Oh. I hadn't thought about that. I guess someone has to. We could keep them different, but anything that would make people think twice isn't good. I don't really look like you, after all...."

"Someone?" Burt asked wryly.

"Well, it's not necessarily a foregone conclusion," Carole began, sounding like she had something to prove. "Only one of you has official paperwork while two Hudsons are on the books, after all. We'd have to explain Finn's name whenever he stopped by. And if anyone came looking for Kurt, well... I'm not saying it'd be hard to figure out who that garage with 'Hudson' on it belongs to, but it'd be a little trickier than 'Hummel.'"

"Wait," Burt slowly said. He sounded completely perplexed. "You think I should change _my_ name?"

"It's a possibility," Carole said. "The same as me changing mine. We're just discussing which possibility we'll take."

"But the woman changes her name," Burt said. He was somewhere past 'perplexed' by that point, like he thought Carole was denying a fundamental law of the universe.

"The woman?" Carole repeated, eyebrow arched. "That sounds very caveman of you."

"Oh," Kurt groaned. "I really wish I hadn't brought this up one day before the wedding."

Holding up a hand, Burt took a deep breath. When he spoke he sounded surprisingly calm. "Okay, Carole. Here's the thing. Like you said, Kurt doesn't have his paperwork any more. Because they took everything from him, down to his identity. And now that he's actually home, you think he should change who he is for good?"

After a few moments of processing that, Carole began to look guilty. "I'm sorry. That does sound mean, put that way."

Burt opened his mouth to reply, but Kurt beat him to it. "No," he said thoughtfully. "Dad, you should do it."

"But Kurt—"

"We won't ever have to explain why Finn has a different last name," Kurt began, but Burt seemed unimpressed.

"The family name'd end here, though," Burt protested.

"No it won't," Kurt said calmly. "Because like you both said, I don't have any papers. We might call me something different, but the government doesn't care what I'm named. For now. One day, when they have to acknowledge me and put me back in the system, my name will be the same as it ever was. It won't matter what... what nickname I go by in the meantime." Burt considered that as Kurt continued, "One day I _will_ get my name back on a fresh birth certificate and Social Security card and everything. I will."

When he didn't get a response, Kurt repeated, every word heartfelt, "One day I will get my name back."

"I kinda like the sound of that," Burt admitted. "Like it's a statement or something. I... yeah. This way makes more sense. Filing one set of papers'd get us all matched up, as far as the government cares. People who know your last name wouldn't have an easy match when they look for us." Pain finally bubbled back into his voice, and he asked Carole plaintively, "I'm gonna change _my_ name? How'd this happen?"

"I think it's a terrific idea," Carole said with a light giggle.

Finn, finally stepping into the conversation, held up his hands. "Okay, I just want to make perfectly clear: I don't have to change _my_ name, do I?"

"No," Burt assured him.

Finn breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. That's a chick thing."

Perhaps out of consideration for the imminent family union, Burt let that slide.

* * *

Finn received the rental tables, Carole signed for the flowers, and Burt made a trip to Target for last-minute needs. It was, Kurt thought as he began to sort out the back yard, one of the most simple and straightforward weddings plans he'd ever witnessed.

Funny, considering it involved _him._

Too happy to acknowledge the neighbors he occasionally saw peeking over fences, he began weaving the flowers through a trellis and into bundles that would be tied among the handful of chairs. The neighbor's dog whined piteously; Kurt smirked as it scratched at the row of cinderblocks Burt had laid down after its third trip into their yard. As soon as his work with the flowers was done, Kurt gave Finn strict orders on where to place the tables and seating and then returned inside.

Food along a typical family feast theme cooked in the kitchen. (Meat in an oven, thankfully, nauseated him far less than meat on an open grill.) A half-dozen centerpieces waited to be placed. And somewhere Carole Hudson was getting ready. Poking his head into the master bedroom, Kurt considered that and then walked downstairs. "I thought I might find you in here."

Carole dabbed nervously at her face with a brush full of bronzer. "I couldn't exactly keep Burt out of his own room. He needs to get his clothes, he needs to... well, not brush his hair," she laughed nervously. "Not yet, anyway."

"That's true," Kurt said, but the longer she went on the more it physically pained him to watch. "Carole, stop, stop. You look like Jwoww. Let me."

"I look like who?" she asked, bemused, as he wiped her face clean for a fresh start.

"I've been watching a lot of Jersey Shore reruns," Kurt sighed, and began an application of cosmetics that was far more flattering than what her nervous hands could manage. When she was softly blushing and her eyes were shadowed, he proudly turned her back to the mirror. "There. My dad won't know what hit him."

"Oh," she said softly, touching cheeks that were firmer than they'd been in years. "I look wonderful. Thank you, Kurt. I look...." A line of worry etched between her eyebrows. "You bled so I could look like this. I shouldn't have said yes."

He waved that off. "We might have a long time ahead," Kurt said dryly as he tried a few different arrangements for her hair. "Get used to thinking of me as the family thermos."

"Kurt," Carole chided, "that's awful. And it makes us sound like really twisted vampires." She spun on her chair, ruining the updo he was considering, and asked, "Are we vampires?"

He laughed and forced her to face the mirror again. "Vampires feed on humans and drink red blood and angst gorgeously. If anything, you're the Tucks and I'm a spring." A frown of his own appeared as he considered his words. Tuck Everlasting wasn't the happiest book. But then, theirs wasn't the happiest world. "Last chance to get out of this whole mess," he quietly reminded her as he twisted her hair into place and began sliding in bobby pins.

"If you say that again," she said pointedly as she watched him work, "then I will ground you. Moms can do that."

"Oh no," Kurt snorted. "You mean I won't be allowed out of the house?"

"Fair enough," she said, reaching over her shoulder to clasp one of his hands. "I'll have to think of a different punishment. I'll steal your hairbrushes or something."

"Don't you dare." But he smiled at her face in the mirror when he said it, and she smiled back.

* * *

The ceremony wasn't what he would have planned. In some ways that was a positive, as much as Kurt hated to admit it. It wasn't that the newlyweds-to-be didn't enjoy a good party, but they had a healthy dose of common sense compared to his own grand visions. With a new house to buy and new business to launch, a quiet ceremony in the yard was probably the smart way to go.

Not the _fun_ way to go, Kurt sighed, dreaming of a spectacular reception hall with a full band, but the smart way to go.

As soon as he heard the doorbell he moved to make himself scarce. Burt would have none of it. "Are you trying to hide in the basement while I'm getting married?" he asked in disbelief.

"The day's about the two of you," Kurt protested as Burt dragged him up that last step, and then shut the basement door firmly behind him. "Not about a viewing party for your pet."

"I know you said you boys didn't need to stand with us, 'cause it's such a small ceremony," Burt said. "And I get it. You don't want to be up front. But this is about family, and my _son_ is going to be there for this."

"At least let me sit behind everyone," Kurt whined as he heard Finn going to greet the first arrival.

"Well," crowed a familiar voice. "Look at what we have here." Jim Reinhart, the second-in-command of the garage ever since Kurt could remember, had arrived in khakis and a sportcoat. It was, Kurt realized with genuine surprise, the first time he'd ever seen the man not dressed for work. Even though he'd made countless visits to that garage, and been greeted with affection each time by the employees, Sportcoat Jim was like a stranger.

"Hey," Kurt said, forcing an even tone and a smile. "Good to see you."

"Good to see you too, kid," said Jim. His eyes never left Kurt's face, and because of that he could relax. Of course it was Jim, sportcoat or not. It didn't matter what was on someone's back.

Despite Burt's desire to have him participate, Kurt still pressed into a corner as the small group of guests arrived. He wasn't used to being around more than a person at a time who didn't know what contact would do. It'd be just his luck to start grinding into Carole's sister when she accidentally brushed him on the way to the punch.

That sister, and the few other friends and relatives on both sides who'd been given an invitation, arrived and began milling around politely on the back deck. It was as if they'd been given very serious, very specific orders not to gawk. They probably had, Kurt allowed. He couldn't say he minded.

"Hey," said a familiar voice and Kurt turned to see Mike there. "Is this all the people?" he asked with amusement, gesturing through the door at the crowd on the deck and grass. After Kurt verified with a quick count that it was, Mike laughed, "Well... looks like the band is almost bigger than the audience. Guess Finn wanted plenty of backup singers."

As Mike continued to explain that he'd been sent over to announce that the choir was grouped and ready, Kurt followed him to the dining room. Everyone there looked up and smiled: Finn, Mercedes, Tina, Artie, Santana, Brittany, Puck, Mr. Schue. Kurt noticed the obvious absence and, after a quick greeting, asked, "No Rachel?"

Finn began apologetically, "She...."

"Still can't see me. Got it." Rachel Berry giving up the chance to perform in front of even a small audience; the events of that summer really had changed her. "Well," Kurt continued in a brighter tone, "thank you very much to everyone for coming. And thank you, Finn, for limiting who you invited. I'll venture a guess that this performance was a pretty hot ticket."

"You have no idea," Santana groaned. "I had sexual favors being thrown at me left and right. Which I turned down, obviously," she said to Finn when he looked offended.

"Yeah, some of the new kids seem pretty decent," Puck shrugged. "But we all figured tonight really wasn't the time to test 'em out."

"Wise move." Kurt began to run down where they would be standing, the general overview of the ceremony, and encouraged them to take the microphone for performances once they'd proceeded to dinner and dancing. "I'd give more complex instructions, but, well... it's fewer than twenty people in a back yard, and I'm serving a family-style dinner," he said wryly. "There aren't too many opportunities for error."

"Hey," Finn said quietly to him when the members of New Directions had begun to filter out into the yard; Artie was helped off the deck by Mike and Puck. Kurt watched him go, and because of it he almost missed Finn's question. "Are you sure you don't want to sing something?"

"No."

Frowning, Finn suggested, "Maybe you and I could...?"

"I know I'd be singing on stage," Kurt gently replied, "but that wouldn't be why people paid attention to me. And I know these are relatives and family friends, but I just... let's keep the night happy, all right?"

"All right," Finn sighed. "I'll drag you back into Rock Band this week or something."

"It's a deal," Kurt said, extending his hand.

Finn shook it firmly, beamed back, and then said he needed to go cue his iPod. He wasn't even providing live music for the processional? Kurt wrinkled his nose before he forced it to smooth. Finn had taken over planning part of the wedding. That was fine. That was good. He wouldn't judge Finn's music decisions no matter how far afield from his own they might be.

Hanging back in the shadows of early evening, Kurt watched with a soft, awed smile as the simple ceremony began. They were largely the traditional vows, with scant ornamentation, but every word sounded like its own promise. He had to bite a knuckle when he saw smiles tug at 'til death do us part'; it wouldn't do to giggle, not even once. Sunset lit his father and new mother softly and beautifully; even without his blood they would have looked young and strong.

He did. She did. The bride was kissed.

"Wow," Kurt whispered to himself as he processed what had just happened. Both parents, when they broke apart from each other, caught his eye before any others. Burt grinned. Carole winked.

Mike hadn't been kidding about the 'backup singers,' Kurt realized when the entertainment began for the reception. Finn had chosen to feature himself on lead vocals with Santana providing occasional lines of her own; everyone else could have been a backing track. The King and Queen of William McKinley began a song that—of course—came from the rock catalog. All the better to feature their voices, Kurt thought as they tackled Bon Jovi's 'You Had Me From Hello.'

When Finn opened with lyrics about feeling insecure about what clothes to wear, Carole laughed and looked pointedly at Kurt. He made an encouraging gesture back, promising her that she looked spectacular. Her attention soon focused only on her new husband as they took to the small rented floor. Their first dance together concluded under the earliest stars of evening.

Will sang next. Mike and Tina. A break for more music from Finn's iPod, then Mercedes. It was all well-rehearsed and charming, and Kurt found himself smiling happily over everything unfolding in front of him.

"Why are you not up there?"

Even more than the words, the voice took him by surprise. Kurt, from his place in the shadows, blinked at Puck. "What?"

"It's like a giant karaoke party and you're sitting here in the corner. At your folks' wedding. Why?"

"Right," he said, looking at where those 'folks' were dancing, and where Finn and Santana spun next to them. "It's their wedding. Their big day. I'd be the center of attention just walking to get a drink."

"Someone thinks he's hot shit," Puck snorted, but he softened that with a grin.

"You thought so," Kurt smirked back. "Speaking of which, sorry. Again."

Puck shrugged and seemed to let it rest.

"You're being weirdly nice," Kurt mused as they stood there and watched the celebration continue around them. "Emphasis on the weird. I still can't believe you've been one of the people bugging me to get back into those video games. And now you're talking to me instead of trying to feel up Brittany while Santana's not looking."

"I can do that any time," Puck laughed. "And whatever. Finn's up his own ass recently, and with everything going on I guess I figured you could use someone asking if you were fine."

"With everything going on?" Kurt repeated. It didn't sound like Puck meant _everything_ going back to last spring. Whatever he referred to, it seemed recent.

"Oh," Puck said blankly. "You haven't looked at Jacob's blog?"

Everything went very still and cold. "No," Kurt said. "Is there something there?"

"Yeah," Puck half-laughed. "Uh, _yeah_."

"Because I kept asking everyone if anything was going on, and they said nothing was happening. Were they lying?" Kurt asked, glancing at the cluster of Tina, Mercedes, and Artie. They waved at him, but then took in his conversation partner and the expression on Kurt's face, and their smiles fell away.

"Yeah," Puck said bluntly. "They were lying. Probably wanted to keep things happy for you before the wedding. Which was a stupid thing to do," he continued, grinning at them like a predator seeing prey, "because now you're going to be pissed about them lying to you, huh?"

Very vaguely, Kurt could remember telling Tina that he hadn't been following Jacob's blog. She must have held onto that like a promise.

They'd told him little, inconsequential things. And like an idiot, he'd accepted those lesser things without bothering to find out if anything worse was going on. Thinking back to his conversation with his father about what was going on his life, Kurt shook his head. His own strategy used against him; he probably deserved that.

"I would've told you," Puck shrugged, "if I'd known what was going on. Seems like they're making decisions 'for your own good,'" he said, complete with fingers carving quotes in the air, "and I know that always pisses me off."

"Thanks," Kurt said. He forced himself to meet Puck's eyes and said more intently, "Thank you. It's better to know. So, check Jacob's blog after the party?"

"Yep," Puck said, clapping him on the shoulder before walking off. "It'll tell you everything." He didn't seem to take offense at Kurt tensing at the contact. "And just... keep an eye out. Believe me, I know what a stone cold bitch she can be."

Wary, Kurt looked sidelong at Santana and wondered what she'd gotten up to.

The girl was draped over Finn, head back as she laughed. Her cleavage, pushed toward the stars, was like some black hole that let no attention escape. At a _wedding_ , he thought grimly, and hoped Carole hadn't noticed her son's girlfriend trying to steal the show. What had she done with the interest granted by that feather? What had she promised people about him?

"Dance with us?"

Realizing the words had come more than once, Kurt refocused his attention on the three girls by him. Tina, Mercedes, and Brittany were all smiling hopefully; Brittany had one hand extended for him to claim. "You've been sitting on the sidelines all night," Mercedes mock-pouted. Kurt had the distinct feeling that she was trying to distract him. "And that just ain't right."

"I don't know," Kurt tried to demur, but Brittany reached out to close the space between them and began tugging him toward the floor. "I... all right," he relented. "But stay near the edge!"

Mercedes claimed the first dance, despite Brittany's grip, and kept things at a safely platonic distance. "I am so happy you asked me about coming over!" she enthused. "I can't wait. My folks keep asking me what they should buy, what we wanna do... I think they miss you, too."

"I was over there a lot last year," Kurt laughed, and spun her. Whatever he felt over them lying to him, it could wait until he learned just what they'd hid. Maybe it wasn't that bad. "They probably felt like they had an oddly pale son."

"Yeah, like a reverse photocopy," she giggled back. "But seriously," she continued when the more dramatic moves ended. "It'll be so good to have you over."

"Absolutely," he promised before Brittany wound up in his arms. "Don't touch them," he reminded her pointedly, despite her disappointment.

"You look so different," Brittany marveled.

"It's obvious?" Kurt asked.

"Totally." Her head tilted to the side. "Wanna try making out again?" When he said no, very firmly, she laughed and said it had been worth a shot.

When Tina took over, the mood once again changed. "We've really been making progress," she said hopefully. "I think we're really changing some hearts and minds."

"Finn said you hadn't gotten anyone to join, though," Kurt pointed out as gently as he could.

"Well," Tina admitted, "we're not the most popular people. I guess. And maybe people don't really like hearing that they have to treat you like a person. But we've made tons of fliers, and gathered money to print more fliers, and we update our Facebook group every day...."

"Sounds great," he told her, even though he could tell from her face that she knew it for a lie.

The party went on into the not-quite-wee hours of night. People said their goodbyes, Puck, Mike and Artie secured another promised Rock Band session, and the girls demanded more scheduled visits at their houses or his. Finn seemed to come off his high of being one of the evening's stars, and couldn't stop grinning at Kurt and saying variations on "hey, bro" and "what up, broseph" and other horrible fratboy-esque turns of phrases that should never be used by anyone.

He finally broke into that string of _guy_ isms to lean in and whisper, "Someone got the bright idea that we should, you know... release a dove. By which I mean they wanted to see you fly." As Kurt gawked at him, Finn nodded knowingly. "And I knew you would totally not be down with that, and got them to shut up."

"Thank you," Kurt breathed.

"Hey," Finn said brightly, and then repeated the same phrase he'd been pulling out all week: "I handled it."

Under the happiness of that family event, Kurt processed Puck's words of warning and the worry that had been percolating all night because of it. When the last guest was gone and their parents had retreated to their room, Kurt brought his laptop to bed with him and made occasional, unthinking noises of acknowledgement at whatever Finn was telling him.

With that cover in place, he went to Jacob Ben Israel's blog.

The bold, blue headline didn't make sense at first. It was only when Kurt finally stepped back from his assumptions that he realized who Puck had been warning him about. Santana wasn't the problem. For as much as her friendship was worth, Santana was on his side, more than ever.

He had someone else to worry about.

Someone who didn't even call him human.

_Santana Lopez Steals Quinn's Captaincy_

 _Fabray Vows Revenge_


	10. Chapter 10

_Jacob Ben Israel, loud and proud, bringing you the latest and greatest developments in the William McKinley school year. Loyal readers will remember my breaking the story of Lima's very own Angel before the news stations ever got hold of it. Who could forget the follow-up of our star quarterback, Finn Hudson, managing to secure a spot in its house? Living the dream! Am I right?_

 _Well, Santana Lopez sure thought so. More often than not, her canoodling sessions with Number Five have been at the Ol' Hummel Place._

 _(P.S.: Finn, if I ever see a biography flick named I Am Number Five, I expect royalty payments.)_

 _If you haven't been following everything that's happened at this school since Santana Lopez became the latest person with direct Angel access, time to catch up. Watch these, then keep reading._

Glancing over to where Finn was settling in for his night's rest, Kurt realized he had to wait. He could grab his headphones, true, but he might not be able to hold back reactions to what he saw. Burt and Carole were going out for a celebratory Sunday brunch and Finn was seeing Santana; the next day would give him plenty of opportunity to research what people had been hiding.

Kurt wished grumpily that they were already in the new house. He didn't want to feel entombed in that basement. And although he usually appreciated having Finn around to wake him from nightmares, at the moment he'd prefer a wall between them. He hadn't told Kurt that 'Fabray vows revenge?' He'd said he was handling everything? Ugh.

Working himself into a snit, Kurt grumpily started reading the latest celebrity articles at PopWatch. (Oh, look. George Clooney was selling his famous house on Lake Como and becoming the latest celebrity to pretend he could manage a ranch. Maybe his Angel wanted more space, too.) Finn had originally sounded like his willingness to share the basement had a distinct deadline, but when they'd said it would be another month at least before the Hudson house closed, he only shrugged. In Kurt's tired, offended mental state, the most reasonable explanation for that seemed to be that Finn wanted more social capital. Simple proximity to Kurt granted that, ergo: basement.

He'd been so _happy_ just a few hours earlier. Kurt sighed, careful not to do so too loudly, and burrowed under the blankets. It was beginning to get truly chilly and the basement was the first room in the house to reflect winter. Better get used to that, he told himself as his eyes drifted closed. He was headed for the mountains. Eventually.

"Hey, bromeslice!" Finn said cheerfully the next morning.

Kurt lurched away from his pillow and looked blearily at Finn. When he woke up and the word still failed to make sense, he slowly asked, "What?"

"It's like homeslice," Finn explained as he hunted down his outfit for the day. "But with a bro."

"Uh huh," Kurt said as his face once again contacted his pillow. By the time he woke Finn was gone and the parents had followed. The fridge was filled with leftovers, but Carole insisted the powers of a mimosa at a proper brunch could not be underestimated.

Time for Jacob's blog, then.

Kurt sighed as he reloaded the page and saw that headline still featured. The squad business had apparently happened on Thursday, and of course nothing would happen at school over the weekend to push it down the page. Jacob's upbeat writeup was still at the top, the same as the night before.

As promised, next came a series of videos from the past week. Following them was a link to the full archive of stories about him. Kurt, wary, clicked to that category and saw the footage Tina had once described: Sue Sylvester screaming at Figgins, ordering him to find a way to get Kurt enrolled back at McKinley. (That she wanted him as some sort of spectacular squad mascot went unsaid.)

Next came interviews with people at school. Some morons said they'd totally predicted it; Kurt rolled his eyes at the absurdity of those odds. Full-length interviews thankfully didn't contain his friends, instead focusing on people he'd once sat next to in class or Cheerios with whom he'd traveled to Nationals. His friends, when they did appear, were single-line snippets that clearly came from Jacob hounding them in the halls.

"Yes," Mercedes confirmed as she hurried away from the camera. "Wings. With feathers. Go away."

"White wings," Puck shrugged. "You know. The boring color."

"You heard right," Santana said in one of the more recent videos, tightening her ponytail as she strutted down the hallway. "White. Which means that feather I posed with was totes legit."

"What do I think about everything?" Finn said as he pulled books from his locker. "Well, this year's about the best ever. For me. It kinda sucks for him," he admitted and did look guilty. Kurt raised an eyebrow at that. It seemed to nearly touch the ceiling before he reined it in. At least he could chalk that up to Finn's horrifying lack of a mental filter; he _had_ acknowledged that it wasn't exactly the best of times for Kurt.

"Have you called their house for a statement?" Rachel brusquely asked the camera when it was shoved in her face. When Jacob began to say that he hadn't but that was a good idea, she continued, "Because I would just like to remind you that harassment laws are taken _very_ seriously for Angel 'owners,' and that contacting an Angel without permission earns jail time." Her voice seemed to leap several dozen decibels. "So if anyone is thinking of bothering Kurt, remember that you'll be running up against the law! And the entire legal system! With judges and appellate courts and everything!"

The video cut to Artie. "Rachel Berry has started reading legal articles," he said flatly. "And I have never been more terrified."

The last clip in the video was of a terrified-looking Figgins stammering that he had no comment on the matter, and did not wish to anger Mr. Burt Hummel and his army of ninjas or sharpshooters or possibly well-trained bees.

"How is that man an educator?" Kurt wondered as he kept browsing. Another writeup greeted him, and with a sigh he settled in.

 _Breaking news! This is almost as big as when we learned that Quinn Fabray had a bun in the oven, and shocker: it involves a lot of the same people! While most of the members of the original New Directions class will be attending the Hudson-Hummel shindig, one of its members will be sulking in her room._

 _Like always, you heard it here first: Quinn Fabray thought leaving Glee was the smart way to go this year, but she might not have wanted to put all her eggs in the Cheerios basket. Let no one say that Sue Sylvester doesn't care about having the most popular girls at that school, because when Santana's star shot through the roof this week, Sue's decision to boot her from captain at the start of the year saw some sudden revisiting. And surprise, surprise: Sue changed her mind. Santana's back on top!_

 _Quinn isn't exactly happy about it._

 _I expect some epic catfighting in the halls. Whether the smart investor money is on jello or pudding remains to be seen._

"Classy as always, Jacob," Kurt grimaced. But where was Quinn 'vowing revenge,' or was that really it? He knew Quinn had been far more awful to some people at that school than he'd ever personally witnessed. Santana had taken her spot from her, Finn had put her into the position to do so, and Kurt himself—that _thing_ —was the tool they used to do it. Could she really be limiting herself to just being 'not exactly happy about it' when she'd left the choir calling him evil?

"Of course not," he murmured as he realized he was on the second page of the archive. Time to hit the latest news, then.

Quinn Fabray approaches Finn Hudson, is rebuffed.

Quinn Fabray states her case to Sue Sylvester, is ignored.

Quinn Fabray walks out after Cheerios practice without saying a word, has a determined look on her face.

That brought him up to the latest headlines, where Quinn Fabray apparently was ready to vow revenge. The video cut in mid-argument. Quinn was in front of Santana's locker and Jacob had apparently fumbled out his camera just in time.

"Having fun with your sham of a relationship?" Quinn asked.

"Well, let's see," Santana said as she deliberately filed a nail. "Finn and I rule this school. He's the star quarterback. And I'm captain of the Cheerios, as I should be. So yeah, you know what? Hudpez is pretty awesome." She considered her words. "Fintana. Sann... no, that doesn't work."

"Wow. What a deep, meaningful foundation," Quinn said dryly.

"Yeah," Santana smirked, studying her fingernail and then going back in for a few more strokes. "Nothing like the epic Princess Bride romance _you_ guys had. Maybe I'll start seeing hearts if I blackmail him into giving me money."

Quinn's eyes narrowed. "Admit the truth. You're just dating him to be on top of the school—"

"We told each other that," Santana laughed.

"—And because you'd do anything to see that thing in his house every day. Because you're perverse."

Her nail file stilled as Santana seemed genuinely perplexed. "'That thing?' Oh, wait, Kurt?" She made a face at Quinn. "Oh my God, are you still on that? The guy braided your hair in the maternity ward."

"I wouldn't have let it touch me if I knew what it was," Quinn said sharply.

"Well, I'm sure he wouldn't have braided your sweaty, gross hair if he'd known what a raging bitch you'd turn back into, so hey, you're even," Santana shrugged.

"Don't defend it," Quinn said, raising her voice. By that point they'd started to gather a crowd. Kurt could see a few familiar faces there: Mercedes, Rachel, Mike. But it was a fight between the captains of the Cheerios, and like seeing two epic heroes square off, no one was willing to come between them. "Everything you're doing is using it to be popular. Taking that picture. Spending time with it. You're using it like you're using Finn, and then you're hypocritical enough to tell everyone that we're supposed to be _nice_ to those things?"

"Super, super obnoxious," Santana said with raised eyebrows. "'Him.' 'Those people.' It's really not that freaking difficult."

"They are what they are," Quinn said. "And to treat them like people is dangerous."

"Kurt has an apron and oven mitt set that's monogrammed," Santana nearly cackled. "Seriously. If there's any reason it's hard to treat him decently, it'd be that."

"So naïve."

"So over this conversation," Santana groaned. "Can you go be somewhere else that's not here?"

Quinn turned, but it was only her head and to address their audience. "For such people are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light," Quinn recited, arms folded below her breasts.

"Are you serious with this?" Santana marveled. "You're quoting the Bible at me?"

Like Santana hadn't said anything, Quinn continued, "It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve."

"Oh my God," Santana said, nose wrinkling as she seemed to realize that Quinn was indeed serious with her argument. "You're actually Bible-thumping and actually calling all of them... what, _Satan_? Wow. I knew you were a bitch, but I guess I thought it had limits. You went all soft and squishy when you were growing a kid. So much for that."

"I'm not 'Bible thumping,'" Quinn replied, her beautiful face an emotionless mask. "I'm pointing out what the people in this town should know. They're too good to be taken in by your lies. You're calling for compassion for something that was born to take care of a few _needs_ and nothing more."

"My _lies_ ," Santana repeated, head bobbing a defiant circle. "About, what, how you're saying, 'yay, let's rape a guy who you were all cozy with last spring?' Is that the problem you have, that I'm actually calling you on what you're preaching?"

"Those things are dangerous. Wicked. They twist our perceptions... they make us think that a walking temptation is a person. These things, sent to test our understanding of good and evil, are actually seen as human by people like you. They have their purpose. Being a person is not it." Quinn actually smiled as she reiterated, "But their ends will be what their actions deserve."

Santana's only reply was a simple, "Rape."

"A term reserved for people," Quinn shrugged.

"You are nasty," Santana said.

"Funny," Quinn replied with dark humor. "Considering the prescriptions I'm sure you're on, 'nasty's' the term I'd choose for you."

"Yeah," Santana agreed with mock sincerity. "Being all 'ew, sex!' is totally the way to go when I'm the one who got drunk and knocked up by McKinley's champion manwhore. Oh, _wait._ "

"One mistake in a far, far superior life," Quinn said, but she was clearly irritated by Santana's words.

Santana, for her part, just seemed amused and ready to go for the kill. "Okay, two things. One: the squad's mine, so get over it," Santana laughed mockingly. "And two? Stop acting like your religion's forcing you to act like a raging, Georgina Sparks-level bitch. 'Cause Oprah over there hugs Jesus just as much as you do, and she's having a movie night with Kurt during the big game instead of leading a 'yay rape!' cheer from the sidelines." She flashed a grin at Mercedes, who mouthed 'Oprah?' "Your religion doesn't make you act like a bitch," Santana finished. "You just really super _want_ to be a bitch, and it makes a nice weapon."

"You can think whatever you want," Quinn shrugged. "But the fact remains that you think you're the new queen of the school and you're telling everyone that Lima's resident Angel needs to be _hugged_ and _loved._ "

"Ugh, seriously, stop with the Barney talk," Santana groaned. "It's so not me."

"While I," Quinn continued like she hadn't said anything, "am telling people the truth. That thing in Finn's house is nothing more than a repository waiting for whatever people want to do to it."

"You know what makes me a million times better than you?" Santana said after a long pause. "We're both bitches. Neither of us gives a shit if we hurt people who deserve it. But what I say, I actually believe."

Kurt saw the truth in Quinn's eyes. He'd gotten used to seeing behind Quinn's mask, at least more than most people in that school. Santana was one of the few others who could see the truth and who would call her on it. That truth almost hurt more than the show she'd just put on.

If she believed a word of what she'd just said, it was only that: a single word here and there. Quinn Fabray didn't think he was a 'demon,' she didn't think he was some temptation sent from the depths of hell, and she didn't really want him to be pinned down by the nearest lusting student. But she was famously faithful. With a fall from grace the year before, it only made sense she would be even more strident in her beliefs that year. No one would question her slinging around verses to argue her point.

It was all an act. Her beliefs might really have her believing that anyone with wings truly was an 'it,' but Kurt doubted very much that she really _wanted_ to see him suffer.

It was just that he didn't matter. Telling people that they should be allowed to lust after him, hurt him, fuck him... it was no different than presenting a car as a prize in some raffle. People would like the girl who got them a new car. People would like the girl who told them they weren't wrong to fantasize over an Angel. If Quinn thought that giving away that car to be driven would put her back on top, she'd do it. If she thought that the spectacle of setting the car on fire would somehow be the way to go, she'd do that instead.

After all: it was only a car.

It was only an 'it.'

"I absolutely believe," Quinn slowly but confidently began, "that people at this school should be allowed to do whatever they want to it. It's what it's made for. Better a bit of bodily temptation than letting evil worm into someone's heart." Quinn tilted her head high, daring Santana to make her next move. She might be the new captain, after all, but Quinn Fabray had plenty of friends on that squad. She still wielded the capital that was the Cheerios uniform. And she had just told the people in McKinley's halls exactly what they wanted to hear: they didn't need to treat Kurt like a person and they weren't wrong for a single one of their fantasies.

As the video continued, Kurt's ears buzzed at the impossibility of what happened next. He had to back up the video twice before he could process what he'd heard.

"Quinn," Sue Sylvester said in an utterly flat voice as she stepped out of a nearby doorway. "You're off the squad."

Quinn spun on her heel and demanded, "What? You can't do that."

"I once told J. Edgar Hoover to stop crossdressing because he couldn't carry off his favorite silk blouse. I can certainly throw one odious little girl off my Cheerios."

Anger making her shake visibly on the small video, Quinn fired back, "I was just talking about my religion and you've chosen to throw me off the squad right after?" She smirked. "Welcome to a discrimination lawsuit."

Sue shrugged. "Or? I gave another shot to last year's captain who nearly ruined my chances by getting herself knocked up by the local bad boy. She only wormed her way back into my good graces by promising sponsors and she's failed to deliver."

Seething, Quinn said, "Well, the people in this town have been a little busy and little stupid with their latest obsession. I wasn't going to smile and pretend that I didn't know why they kept talking about _Michael_ and _Gabriel._ "

"So you admit that you allowed personal feelings to impact your duties as a Cheerios fundraiser." Sue turned right to the camera. "You get that, Ben Israel? Because she just hand-delivered all the evidence I need for a no-fault booting."

The camera bobbed up and down, presumably as Jacob nodded.

Quinn's fists balled. Her shaking returned. Anger, disbelief, fear: they all played across her face. In the space of one video she'd lost her last great claim to social legitimacy at that school, her scholarship ticket out of that town, and her chance to regain the life she'd lost.

When that last phrase played through Kurt's mind, he actually smirked at the monitor. Despite the hatred she'd been slinging at him, some tiny fragment of him felt sorry for Quinn, almost against his will. She'd been so terrified of her own body the year before and she'd suffered because of her parents' indoctrination. Just as he'd heard for most of his life that he was wrong and sick and bound for hell, he could sympathize with her suffering on the other end of religion's worst excesses. If she were genuinely afraid of what his existence _meant_ , he found it oddly hard to blame her.

But if she were frustrated over no longer having the life she wanted?

"Join the club, sister," he laughed, and unpaused the video.

Quinn actually fished out index cards and glanced through them before reciting the verse that one held. "The coming of the lawless one will be in accordance with how Satan works. He will use all sorts of displays of power through signs and wonders that serve the lie, and all the ways that wickedness deceives those who are perishing. They perish because they refused to love the truth and so be saved." Quinn's chin tilted upward. "Thessalon—"

"Judge not, that ye be not judged." Many of the students in the hall turned toward Mercedes when she finally spoke up in an absolutely level, sure voice. "Matthew 7:1. And I didn't need a cheat sheet for it. Oh, and we're _really_ not friends any more."

"What a tragedy," Quinn said breezily and turned on her heel. "Hey!" she said to the nearest group of boys in letterman jackets. "You can't possibly believe everything that Lopez has been trying to feed you...."

"Stop looking at me like that, Ben Israel," Santana said with a glare toward the camera. "Like I'm freaking Mother Teresa or something. Saying 'stop cheering for rape' doesn't make me a softie. I'm still a badass. Just one with a _soul_ ," she added, shouting that line after Quinn.

"You seem to care about it," continued Jacob's interview. "Is that indoctrination from your boyfriend?"

"He," Santana instinctively corrected.

"You really are acting like a big squishy Elmo right now," Jacob mused and Santana made a face at him. "So, Santana," Jacob asked from behind the camera. "Can we expect to see you joining Rachel's club? You two could have fundraisers. Pillow fight fundraisers. In your underwear."

"You're gross and I want to hit you," she said right into the camera lens.

"It's usually a bad idea to commit assault and battery against someone videota—"

The video ended.

Kurt stared blankly at his computer as thumbnails of related YouTube videos replaced the sight of linoleum and lockers. He'd been expecting something quite literal for 'vowing revenge.' Quinn twirling her metaphorical mustache and promising that she'd get Santana and her little Angel, too. Instead, he had Quinn calling him outright evil, saying that he couldn't help but be a dangerous temptation and that it was better to sin with the body than their souls, and that they should be allowed freedom to do whatever they wanted to Kurt. And in her last shot, she'd started campaigning.

Finn had not 'handled that.'

His other friends had outright lied about what was happening.

And yet... he couldn't bring himself to hate them. He felt too exhausted to be that angry. Kurt was used to being targeted for who and what he was. Before he'd ever thought about distinctions like 'gay' and 'straight,' he'd heard hateful comments from people who seemed personally offended at the sight of a little boy in line for Mulan clutching a Barbie version of the titular character. When he grew up, the comments became anonymous and darker. He could still remember a phone call saying that his brains would be fucked out because 'I'll blow a hole in your head first.'

Most calls weren't that bad. Anywhere near it. Most were shouted slurs by people too cowardly to stay on the line for anything longer. He hadn't told his father about even the most generic of those calls. He'd made that decision for Burt's own good.

Like when the list of dream names for his future pet turned into wings on his back, Kurt couldn't help but think that karma was enjoying kicking him until it heard a rib crack. He leaned back, feeling those wings compress against the wall, and sighed. It hadn't been right, what they'd done. He'd call them on it. But it felt like the fight was long burned out of him, and it was easier to be tired instead of angry.

He didn't move much until he heard voices an hour later.

"Down here, still," he called when he heard Finn start wondering where he was.

"Really?" Finn asked as he jogged down the stairs. "You're hardly down here when you're not asleep, anymore. Uh, want us to stay upstairs, then?" he added with a gesture to Santana's feet on the staircase.

"Finn said you had the house to yourself again," she helpfully added.

"Sure," Kurt said. "Whatever. I looked at Jacob's blog."

Neither of them said anything at first. They came down together without needing to discuss it. "Look," Finn said nervously. "It was just... it blew up two days before the wedding. And you don't get the chance to do much fun stuff, and I just... I thought you could wait until after it to hear."

"She spent all Friday chatting up people," Santana continued. "Like she was trying to convince them to vote for her as student body president. It was totally shameless. She is working it."

"I just... it's hard to understand," Kurt said. "I know that she's painting me as this evil thing. That she's playing on people preferring hedonism to good behavior. And I know that it'll probably work. But I just can't _understand_ any of that."

"It's not going to work," Finn insisted. "The things she was trying to say...." His fists actually clenched, and Kurt wondered what sort of promises Quinn had been making to the people of William McKinley on Friday. "They are not going to happen."

"'Cause you've got us around, right?" Santana added.

Kurt was still ninety percent sure that she wasn't trustworthy. She was not a good person. But she'd done very good things for him when she hadn't needed to. "I saw all you said to her. Thanks," Kurt said softly. "I really didn't expect that."

"Whatever," she shrugged. "I rule, Quinn sucks. We already knew that, so: whatever."

"I just really appreciated when you—"

"If you do not shut up," Santana said, holding up an index finger, "I will start calling you 'it' just because I know it pisses you off."

That broke some of the tension, and Kurt wryly countered, "You're such a badass, Santana Lopez. The most fearsome girl at school. Go rule that place with an iron fist."

"Much better," Santana said brightly. " _Now_ you're welcome."

"But seriously," he added. "Thank you."

She looked uncomfortable at the sincerity, but eventually sighed and replied, "I knew Quinn could be gross, but I didn't know she'd go that over the top with it."

"She doesn't think I'm a person. And the second you stop thinking someone's a person, it's open season on your darkest impulses."

"It's not gonna _happen_ ," Finn insisted, and sounded a little put out that Kurt was thanking Santana exclusively. "Hey, come on. Let's plan our next move, okay? We'll stay one step ahead of her. Good guys, assemble!"

"Oh. Oh! Let me pose with you," Santana said with excitement. "It'd be awesome. Like you did with Finn."

"I don't know," Kurt tried to demur.

"No, that's totally a great idea!" Finn enthused. "Okay, so it's going to be a total warzone at that school, right? Quinn's going to be trying to get on top of things. And she's going to do that by saying really bad things about you. And you don't want that, right?"

"No," Kurt mumbled. Obviously he didn't. But _they_ were the ones dealing with its halls every day. He supposed he didn't mind if people hated him, so long as they got out of that town eventually. For everything that Quinn might try to rile people into doing, the law wouldn't allow any of it. "Does it really matter, though?"

"Of course it matters," Santana snapped. "High school is a cutthroat jungle of... of cutting throats, and if you don't help us then you are just begging Quinn to rule that place."

He _should_ care, in theory, but it just seemed easier to roll over and wait for everything to blow over instead of trying to insert himself into the social warzone that was William McKinley. "I get that, but—"

"Dude," Finn said meaningfully. "She's gonna pick a boyfriend. Some new jock to take us on."

"Good for her," Kurt said. "I'm sure she'll find someone exactly as callow and selfish as she deserves."

"Probably," Santana said, "because you know she's only looking for someone to act out a role with her: would-be king to her would-be queen. And considering what a prissy little ice princess she is," Santana added with a snort, "she's probably not even going to put out as part of the deal."

"Why do I care?" Kurt asked. Finn and Santana exchanged a weighty look. "Spill," he ordered them. "I'm serious. You are not holding back information from me again. I am not some child who can't make his own decisions."

"Quinn wants someone who thinks they should be allowed to do whatever they want to you, right?" Finn said reluctantly. "And if they're on top of things, they'll be the ones setting the tone for how people act. People might start calling, coming up to the house and doing stuff...."

So it'd be like what he went through for being the gay kid, Kurt thought darkly. Tragic. "Again, so? She can tell people to touch me, but they'd head to prison after a single finger. It's not like I want that to happen, but...." He exhaled, inhaled, and risked saying, "Most of what you're talking about sounds like it'd be a lot worse for you than for me." There it was. His suspicion that everything Finn was doing was to serve Finn's purposes, not Kurt's. Actually vocalizing those concerns made his hands start trembling and Kurt instantly wanted to take the words back.

"Quinn grabbed herself a Crabbe and Goyle," Santana finally said after looking at Finn. "For all I know, she'll pick one of them for her totally fake boyfriend. And put together, they'll start campaigning for...." She sighed. "For all that stuff I'm not allowed to talk about with you? Yeah. For that stuff to happen."

"Who?" Kurt asked, beginning to grow suspicious.

"Azimio and Karofsky," Finn said reluctantly. "And believe me, they were both super, _super_ into the idea that it was totally okay for them to do anything they wanted to you. If one of them was the new king of the school...."

"Shit," Kurt groaned, rubbing tiredly at the space between his eyes. The boys who'd threatened the worst violence against him of anyone at that school. The boys who were reactive, short-tempered, and might well rile people up into actual action instead of just hurtful words.

The law would always be on his side when it came to protecting him from random assaults, but it wasn't a shield. It would come in after the fact. He'd assumed that people would think twice about whether hurting him was worth it. But those two, who _impulsively_ threw him around or _impulsively_ yelled names or....

"You think we should take a picture together?" he asked Santana dully.

"Yes," she enthused as she pulled him to his feet and began posing. Her hand gestured impatiently for Finn to position himself as their photographer. "Wait," Santana said. "I have an awesome idea. We're gonna escalate this bitch like it's Afghanistan."

She suctioned herself to Kurt's side. Her arms wrapped around his chest and he froze; if she moved her arms just a little bit, she could start rubbing the underside of both wings. And he wouldn't be able to stop her if she started. "Relax," she breathed. "Re. Lax. Look, Finn's right here. Finn's looking at you. Nothing bad's going to happen," she said as she got up on her toes and her breasts pressed against his upper arm.

"It's cool," Finn promised him like he was calming a nervous animal.

A nightmare coming true, Kurt thought with short, hitching breaths as his peripheral vision saw Santana lean in. "Get ready," Santana told them both, and then opened her mouth and licked a long, deliberate path up Kurt's cheek with her tongue.

He trembled like a late season leaf. Touching him. Holding him. Skin on skin. Not a family member. Not someone he trusted. Not someone he could trust to keep away from his wings. But if he tried to get away, the arm against his back might jerk up. He couldn't move. He couldn't run. The heat of her skin on his face had been burning for _hours_ when Finn announced that he'd taken a ton of pictures, and Santana pulled away in a second. "Gimmee," she demanded, grabbing for the phone, and immediately ran up the stairs to pick her favorite in privacy.

"Cool, that'll really... Kurt?" Finn asked when he saw that Kurt wasn't moving except to shake where he stood. "You okay?"

"She touched me. I didn't want her to touch me but she touched me."

"It's just Santana," Finn said carefully, holding up his hands. "You know Santana. You like Santana."

A flashback began to sweep him: standing on the stairs of a well-appointed house, not allowed to move as partygoers touched him and commented on his appearance. He hadn't had a full-on flashback in weeks, only nightmares that caught him in the vulnerability of sleep. But then he hadn't seen a girl who could have been a friend campaigning for his worst bullies to torture and rape him. For weeks he hadn't been pressured into being groped and licked by a girl who he still couldn't trust. For weeks he'd trusted Finn, and not known that he thought that year was his best ever. Yes, a flashback made sense on that one particular day.

"Kurt," Finn said intently, and Kurt shakily realized that Finn was slightly bent over to meet him eye-to-eye. His hands were on Kurt's shoulders and squeezed hard. "Hey. You with me?"

"Don't...." He had to swallow. "Don't let her do that again."

"Okay," Finn said carefully. "I won't. You want me to, you know... cheer you up?"

"She's _upstairs_ ," Kurt said, blinking back frustrated tears. "No."

"Sure," Finn promised. "Okay. Whatever you want. Sorry."

 _Send her home?_ Kurt thought. _And then make me happy? At least for a minute?_ But of course, Finn didn't hear him. Finn just looked at him with concern, squeezed his shoulder, and said that he'd leave Kurt alone since he had that look on his face. They'd be quiet. They wouldn't bother him.

It was like they needed campaign posters. _Hudson/Lopez: We're Nicer To Angels, So One Lets Us Touch Him!_ could fill some of the yards in town. The others would be plastered with _Fabray/Adams Or Maybe Karofsky: Why Hold Back?_

When politicians argued, the vulnerable in society were more often pawns than beneficiaries. They made promises, they held up suffering single mothers and sick children as touching stories, and then they promptly forgot those needy people as soon as they got re-elected.

More than anything in the world, Kurt wanted one particular fantasy to come true at that moment: Finn, of his own accord, would announce that he understood how terribly Kurt was suffering and that nothing could be worth that. On his own, with no guilt toward anyone, he would tell the family to move on to their fresh start. He would come along, figure out his life in some new town, and Kurt would keep the one person who knew everything. And without the weight of a lifetime spent with the same people, Finn would be that kind boy from summer rather than the one warped by popularity.

Finn didn't say that, of course. He never would.

Quinn's words from the video filled Kurt's mind, as much as he wished he could forget having seen it. Heaven, hell. Angels, demons. The book that had been used to justify discrimination against him, now being used to justify torture and rape. He supposed the religious bent of her argument did make sense.

After all, he knew perfectly well that he was choosing the lesser of two evils.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey," Kurt heard a half-hour later. He looked dully up and saw Finn walking down the stairs. "You can come upstairs, if you want. Santana's gone."

"Thought you'd be there for hours," he said. "With how Dad said they're going to go run some errands after."

"Yeah, well, we can make out any time." Finn considered that. "We do make out any time. We cut class three times this week and made out in her car."

"How nice for you."

"Anyway," Finn continued, "you're upset. Obviously."

"Mmm." Kurt shrugged and didn't try to answer more than that soft sound. "So, she posted her new pic?"

"No. We deleted them all."

Kurt looked at Finn, startled.

"Because when I got up there," Finn continued, "she was sitting there and staring at them. I asked her what was wrong and she just... she held out her phone and told me to look. I said I didn't need to look, because I was the one who took the pictures, right?"

"What was wrong with them?" Kurt asked warily, worried that his stupid, unpredictable body would discover some new behavior of going vampire-invisible on camera.

"I guess I was focused on taking the picture, not seeing what was in front of me. And she was focused on posing for it, not what...." Finn broke off, didn't say anything for a few breaths, and finally finished, "We saw how scared you looked."

"Yeah," Kurt said. He swallowed. "I was."

"We were both really sorry that we did that to you." Finn sat carefully down and studied his hands. "We just got kinda carried away. It made sense when we were doing it. Just taking a picture with a feather made Santana so popular that she knocked Quinn out of captain. It was like you're...." He laughed softly, bitterly at the return of an earlier joke. "Magic."

"And that did a lot of good," Kurt said. "Now Quinn's actively trying to convince people that I'm not human. That I deserve to be...." His voice caught. Damp eyelashes clung together as the full horror of her plan sunk in, and Kurt could just barely force out, "That I deserve to be raped."

"That is not going to happen." Finn hit each word hard. They seemed to echo off the walls.

"I can't. I can't, again. I can't." His damp eyes screwed shut. Memories of forced pleasure consumed him, like a layer of honey spread over sewage. He knew those _things_ on his back would be a magnet. They'd be touched. If it happened again, he'd enjoy it.

Warm, strong fingers closed around his wrists. When Kurt forced his lids open, brown eyes were boring through him. "It won't happen."

"I just... I can't," Kurt whispered. "I know that sounds selfish. When other people like me are suffering every single day. But I can't."

Finn looked horrified. "God." He laughed weakly. "I don't think there's any way to be selfish when you say 'I don't wanna be raped.' Okay?" He kept repeating the word until Kurt agreed with him and then exhaled a deep, long breath. "Yeah. Things got worse. Quinn made things worse. So we're gonna help you, okay?"

 _I'm packing up my things tomorrow. We're moving. You can step outside your front door and only see pine trees. The midday sky is yours for the taking._

"We're both gonna join that club that Rachel started. They're trying to help but no one wants to go because they're not popular." Finn looked utterly determined as he said, "Well, if we join, lots of people will."

"And then what will you do?" Kurt asked softly. Maybe Tina had some idea for a slogan that could counter Quinn's hedonistic approach, but if so, he'd never heard it. He supposed it was enough that Santana Lopez felt guilty enough over those terrified photographs to willingly associate with that group of girls.

"We'll... I don't know," Finn admitted. "But Tina, Mercedes, and Rachel have gotta have some ideas if we promise them we can bring them some members."

He was trying. He was honestly trying. It was the most Kurt could ask for and actually hope to receive. "I'm sure they will," he said, and rubbed at one aching eye. "I'm going to go wash my face."

Finn nodded, still seeming concerned. "You do that. Then come upstairs, okay? You get all twitchy down here. You're all ruffled. Did you know you're ruffled? Does it feel weird?"

"No," Kurt sighed as he walked in and turned on the faucet. Sure enough, the mirror told him, he was flustered and uneven. He tried to smooth down the errant feathers within reach but they popped back into obstinate position, and Kurt soon gave up and splashed water on his face. When he dried his face and saw the mirror again, irises the color of the sea off Capri greeted him. His eyes were bloodshot, he told himself. That always made colors look more intense.

When he'd fantasized about owning a controller, he'd vaguely noticed that the Angels' eyes were... captivating, he thought unhappily. Browns were impossibly rich and scattered with flecks of gold. Greens were like sunlight through spring leaves. Greys shone like silver. He'd have thought they'd started like that, if he'd considered it at all, but of course that was impossible.

Almost fearfully, he inched back onto the scale.

A choked sob escaped Kurt when he watched it stop at seventy-five pounds.

"I'm _trapped_ ," he forced out when Finn, hearing the sound, pulled him out of the bathroom and onto the edge of his bed. "In this stupid body, I'm trapped." Kurt tugged at the edge of his collar with frustration, and then raked across his face with his fingernails. Though Finn instantly caught his hand, angry lines were scored. He could feel their heat vanish as he healed.

"Don't do that," Finn said, but he clearly didn't know what to do.

"When is it going to stop?" Kurt pleaded. "First the damned wings, and they took hours to grow back. Now I get a finger back while I watch. My skin changed color. My hair, my eyes, the shape of my _face_...." His hands clenched and unclenched convulsively on his knees. "I weigh seventy-five pounds, Finn. Not too long ago it was ninety. When's it going to stop? I just..." His hand closed around his collar again, and stayed there. "I'm trapped."

When Finn tried to hug him, Kurt pushed him away.

Neither of them moved after that. Finn looked stunned and almost hurt at the rejection of his offered comfort, and Kurt didn't know what to say. He just knew that at that moment, Finn hadn't been his rock. He'd been a person Kurt couldn't wholly trust who was moving to grab him.

"It'll stop," Finn eventually promised him and Kurt waved him off. "No, really. It's like...." Finn thought hard. Kurt could almost hear the clicking of mental gears turning. "Puberty."

"Come again?"

"You know. Not everything happens at once. It's not like you wake up one day and you suddenly have sideburns _and_ pit hair _and_ your voice has changed... or... uh, you know, whatever." Finn shook his head, presumably at memories. "You just think you're getting used to one thing and then, bam, you finally figure out that you really do need to start using deodorant."

"Ew," Kurt said, but he managed a weak smile. He was definitely out of sorts if he needed to rely on Finn Hudson to come up with the comparison that put everything into perspective. "I suppose that makes sense. It's just... you hear in health class what you have to 'look forward to.' I don't know anything about this. I'm having to figure out everything on my own."

"Please don't cut off your hand again," Finn immediately said.

"People are trained for years," Kurt said after working at a fingernail for a while. "When they're first taken. So they'd change while that's going on in private. No one else would see it. I guess." Someone taken at eleven years old wouldn't lose all that much weight, really, to get down to what he could only assume was a good number for flying. Someone who changed at twelve would naturally grow into a young adult's face that seemed almost sculpted; his had been forced to shift.

"Yeah," Finn said supportively. "Like, picture someone in the news who's always got their Angel with them. They look the same, right? They don't keep changing."

"Right. That makes sense. I just want it to stop." Training might last years, but he desperately hoped the changes wouldn't continue that long. He didn't know how much more he could take. "I just want it to stop."

"Remember what you said," Finn said encouragingly, risking patting him on the shoulder. Kurt let him. "You'll be able to go anywhere. Light equals fast, right? One day, all this'll be a good thing. And you look really great," he added with a lopsided smile.

"Thanks," Kurt said uncertainly. "So, did Santana take a new picture?" he asked, the question suddenly bubbling to the top of his mind. She'd deleted all of that day's work when she'd realized what had happened, so there must be some new smile up on her profile.

"Huh?" Finn seemed confused. "No, she's got that one with the feather, remember?"

"Oh," Kurt said, and tamped down his disappointment with practiced ease. The conversation came to an abrupt close with that answer. They could both feel it. "Right."

  


* * *

He was a hot story. Regular posts went up all during Monday.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sue snapped when Jacob tried to corner her to ferret out any hidden emotional agenda for booting Quinn off the squad. "Fabray was inciting violence toward someone whom the law very clearly protects. Any fallout would send the squad's insurance premiums through the roof. And if that happens, I wouldn't be able to afford my gold-plated Roomba."

"Some _one_?" Jacob repeated.

Sue stared levelly back at the camera. "You have any more real questions for me, Woody Allen, or am I going to hurl you into a bank of lockers?"

"Um. I really don't want you to throw me into the lockers again."

"Then you'd better think of a decent question to ask me," Sue replied.

"Why... are you so amazing?"

Sue smiled. "Nicely played."

Alone in his house, Kurt spent most of the day reloading the page and waiting for that flash of dread when a new story replaced whatever he'd grown used to seeing. When Jacob took too long between updates, he found himself reading story comments even as he knew it was a stupid thing to do. Quinn was right. Quinn knew the truth.

Quinn was on his screen the next time he reloaded.

"What can I say?" she shrugged, smiling. Her hair was in loose waves around her shoulders. "I had a busy weekend. Lots of new friends."

"Yeah," Jacob's offscreen voice agreed. "Rumors has it you were at the Wilkinsons' when that kegger was going on. After your _incident_ last year you'd think you'd steer clear of the alcohol, but hey, live the wild life!"

Her mouth thinned. "I stayed in complete control of myself. And the other people there, well... if they wanted to relax, I guess I can't blame them. After all," she added with a smirk, "they're _frustrated._ "

"What's your comment on Sue Sylvester saying that you're inciting violence?"

Quinn seemed taken aback by the sudden, serious question, but covered it quickly. "I'm not 'inciting' anything. I'm just stating an opinion. I'm allowed free speech, right? This is America. I know that officially, no one can touch it," she continued. "But if you listen to Santana and Finn, they make it sound like people can't even talk... can't even _think_ about it. It's completely ridiculous."

"So, you're saying that people should have free license to fantasize about it while doing a little of the ol' pickle tickle?" When her expression morphed into disgusted horror, Jacob sighed. "Or, you know, word that how you want."

Quinn considered matters, and then said very carefully, "I already said that those things are walking temptations. Sexual promiscuity is a major problem at this school. If those things are _designed_ to arouse people, then maybe they serve a real purpose. People who can't control themselves have a safe outlet for their urges. They'll barely sin."

"Quinn Fabray, actually telling people to beat the meat. Play pocket pool. Play the skin—"

"You're disgusting." She looked ready to bolt, but centered herself on the camera. "That thing is put here to tempt people. It's not fair to pretend otherwise. Lying like Finn and Santana only makes things worse for everyone. I'm just trying to be _fair_ ," she reiterated with a smile. "And I'm definitely not inciting anything, _Sue._ "

Kurt curled his lip with distaste as the video ended. Funny: he very much doubted that in any other situation she'd say 'well, just sin a _little_ bit' rather than encourage people to put on an outfit straight out of Amish Country and stay chaste and boring. It was utter hypocrisy for her to simultaneously play that perfect model citizen with a cross around her neck while she encouraged people to fantasize about his sexual domination, and yet no one there seemed to question it. She had just enough legitimacy with the whole 'forgivable sin' routine to allow people to justify their urges to themselves.

It was the same logic that said that Britney's whirlwind Vegas marriage was just a foolish mistake while gay marriage would destroy the foundations of society. If it were what people wanted to hear, they'd gloss over the imperfections in an argument. You could get away with anything if you were already the king of the mountain.

The rest of the day was a series of Quinn-supporting interviews. She popped up in many of them. Part of the hockey team agreed that it was just relieving stress, like when they got drunk over the weekend. Only a few of them had been stupid enough to drive home drunk; most of them just wanted to take the edge off. This'd be fine. Fantasizing, going to its house... it was all just taking the edge off. No one was gonna break the law, obviously.

"But you just said that a few people did drive home drunk," Jacob pointed out.

They told him to get his camera out of their faces before they introduced his face to a toilet.

The next time Jacob saw Quinn she was with her two new bodyguards or lackeys or boyfriends-to-be or whatever it was that she saw as Azimio and Karofsky's potential. "Feels good to finally be able to speak my mind!" Azimio crowed while Quinn looked on proudly. "Hell yeah I want it on its knees. My dick's not gonna suck itself," he laughed as Quinn's expression turned into disgust that she tried to hide.

While his loud, crowing proclamation had earned some laughter from the halls, it also earned a shout that he was _not_ acting appropriately. Will Schuester glared at him, then the rest of the students, and told them that any such discussions would see a visit straight to Figgins' office.

Unsurprisingly, when Karofsky talked it was quieter so that no teachers would hear. His eyes never met the camera. He still sounded ashamed of what he was saying, like Quinn's words hadn't quite convinced him but he was going along for the ride. It wasn't human. It was just a thing. Anything they wanted to do to it was fine. It was natural. Look, everyone was talking about it.

When Finn got home, Kurt felt tired and trapped and angry. Not a single voice from the other side had been heard, but considering how Jacob saw him firmly as an 'it,' he suspected media bias. "I saw everything," he said before Finn had a chance to ask him. "All of Quinn's little toadies."

"Yeah. Well. We're doing something on Wednesday. It'll be really cool." Finn smiled. "Promise. It'll be awesome."

"They're just... people are talking in the halls about how they want me to... do things to them," Kurt shivered. "I know she keeps saying she's not inciting anything, but she's making it acceptable. People think that it's okay to talk about me like that. She's pushing people toward thinking it's okay to do anything to me, and hand-waving everything away as, 'oh, the law will stop them.'" He rubbed at his upper arms, feeling cold. "We should tell Dad something."

Looking pleased at the suggestion, Finn agreed, "Totally." He began musing here and there on new security systems, shotguns, and eventually shoulder-mounted rocket launchers before Kurt held up his hands.

"Stop. Stop. I know you keep pushing me to try all those other games past Rock Band, but we are not arming this place with bazookas and machine gun turrets. Because we have a security system that will alert the police the second someone breaks in, right?" After waiting for Finn's nod, Kurt continued, "And besides, telling him you thought we needed all that would have him incredibly on edge."

"Well," Finn said uncertainly.

"If anyone lays a hand on me to hurt me," Kurt pointed out, "they get ten years. Minimum. I know we're worried about what Quinn might rile people into doing, but you would have to be _very_ impulsive to listen to her when that would be the punishment. But making contact? Starts at six months." He sighed. "Someone might figure that if it's that short, it probably wouldn't happen at all. That they could risk it."

He didn't like to think about what would earn someone fifty years, minimum.

It was a little perverse that the law did seem to protect him, thanks to a family owner. Those laws had been put into place not to protect Angels, but to protect investments. Physically, it didn't matter if an Angel was disemboweled and burned alive; he or she would look the same as ever in a few hours' time, if that. But they would be traumatized and might not respond to commands as quickly as an owner might like, and _that_ was simply unacceptable.

Officially, every single text message his friends had sent him could lead to a six-month sentence. Anyone outside an owner's household was forbidden from any contact without written permission. It prevented any parents or friends from trying to track down the person they'd once known. Actually showing up in person was punished with sentences similar to physical assault; if Burt had known where Kurt was and had tried to see him during that awful summer, he'd be in prison.

That assumed charges were pressed, of course. It was up to the owner to say that yes, an offense should be punished. Otherwise, an inadvertent stumble on Park Avenue could put some fellow billionaire behind bars. It always blew over. The stock repercussions from industrial revenge would be too large a burden to bear.

When Burt got home and they told him about what was happening at school, Kurt only mentioned that Finn had heard about potential calls. People wanted to say things to him. People wanted to hear the sound of his voice. And with the free caller ID from their phone service, it was possible to mask their numbers.

"I'll talk to the police," Burt sighed. "There's gotta be something more they can do, and it sounds like they're required to give me a whole bunch of stuff if I ask for it." He rubbed the back of his neck, easing away old tensions, then asked, "Finn, you hear anything else we need to worry about?"

"Same old stupid stuff," Finn said when Kurt's stare bored holes through him. "But yeah, calling is going to be the new big thing, I think."

"It's such a small sentence in comparison," Kurt pointed out. "And these people are stupid. They might think oh, they can risk it."

Admitting that seemed likely enough, Burt set off to contact the police. Soon they were set up with a police-level identification system that was impossible to block through traditional methods. Unless the student body of McKinley had taken on espionage as afterschool jobs, their numbers would show up.

"Hello?" Kurt said when he saw a number pop up on Tuesday evening: Jason Kimble. That must be Ethan's dad, unless he was forgetting some other Kimble at school. He doubted so; Ethan had done well at track meets last year and got as much attention as anyone in the sport. Quinn would first target people at the top of the food chain, almost certainly.

"I want you under me."

That was when Burt spoke up from where he was listening on another receiver. "Is this Jason Kimble, or is it his son?" When only silence was his answer, and then the click of a dial tone, he told Kurt to hang up the phone and then punched in the number on the display. "Yeah, you listen to me, you little punk. I've got your number, got your dad's name, and the call's recorded. You want me to turn it over to the police? You want to miss the rest of the year in jail, kid? The trial'd take ten minutes. That's if the judge takes her time getting started." He snorted. "The hell you didn't mean anything by it. You go tell all your friends that we know exactly who's calling, we've got everything on tape, and we will turn it in to the cops."

Kurt inched his thumb toward the call button and listened quietly in. Ethan was sobbing for Burt not to turn the tapes over to the police. Fear made him nearly incoherent.

"Well, you just wait and see," Burt said. "Maybe the cops'll show up. Maybe I'll be nice. But trust me, 'nice' is gonna get a whole hell of a lot harder if we get called again. You hear me?"

That was that. Ethan wailed something that was probably 'yes,' hung up, and Burt was left shaking his head. "Dumbass kid," he muttered. "You shouldn't have to hear things like that. Ever."

"I doubt I will," Kurt pointed out, "after you terrified him like that. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I sort of want you to do it again."

Burt laughed. "Just point me at the next guy and I'm there. Hell, it actually felt good to do something to help you, y'know?"

Smiling, Kurt nodded. He could tell that it was absolutely true, and that his father wished he could do more. "It's big talk," he said when the inevitable question arose as to what that place was like. "It's... do you remember Quinn? Blonde girl, in Glee last year?"

"Was she the one I walked in on you with?" Burt asked thoughtfully.

"No. The one who was pregnant." That did it, and after Burt snapped his fingers Kurt continued, "She's just being obnoxious. That guy called because she's making this big production out of... out of me being an 'it.' And she's popular, so. You know. They listen."

Burt nodded, frowning. "How bad's it getting?"

"Oh, everyone knows what the jailtime is," Kurt said breezily. "But they're just... it's hard to watch everything people say. A guy posts videos of what goes on at school," he explained at Burt's confusion.

"Well, maybe you should stop watching those videos," Burt suggested. "You want me to call that girl's house, talk to her parents?"

"Her mom?" Kurt shook his head. "She'd probably tell you you've done something terrible in your life to deserve losing your child. Since, you know, I'm not a person. Or maybe she'd tell you it was a blessing because you got rid of a gay son."

"Sounds like a nice family," Burt said darkly.

"They threw out their daughter because she got pregnant," Kurt pointed out.

A flash of sympathy moved through Burt's eyes, but it was gone in a second. "Well, you let me know if you want me talking to them. And seriously, stop watching those videos. Soon enough we'll be out of this place and you'll never have to deal with those people again, right?"

"Right. I know." It was so easy to talk to his father once he'd started. First, the phone call. Now, the big blustery talk at school. He could tell him everything. What could Burt do, though? He could talk to the police and identify any voice. He could put the fear of God into anyone making prank calls. But he couldn't stop Quinn Fabray from using Kurt as a tool to be popular. He couldn't turn back time and protect Kurt so his first kiss was loving and his first time consensual.

Telling him what he could actually help with was enough, and Kurt stopped there. "Thanks, Dad," Kurt finally finished, and hugged him. Burt patted him awkwardly on the back, well under where his hand might accidentally brush wings, and murmured promises that he'd send Kurt some listings soon. Like he'd once said, he could look at those houses in those far-off towns and dream.

He was about to go off in search of some isolated corner of the house when Kurt remembered, "Finn's doing something tomorrow. I'm not sure what. But, you know." Kurt shrugged, smiling. If only he and Santana would take down those profile pictures. If only Finn would figure out that he hated knowing his face was still up there. "Seems like everyone's helping."

"Good for him," Burt said sincerely. "We'll get you through this until it dies down, okay?"

"Right. Right. People are just being stupid. Quinn's telling them what they want to hear. Next week a Cheerio will cheat on a boyfriend or something and everyone will have their new topic of discussion, I'm sure. High school," he added with a derisive eyeroll.

Something finally tickled at his memory later that evening. Despite seeing it on Jacob's blog the day before, his mind hadn't picked out the oddity of what he saw until that moment. It made him frown, curious.

Funny. With her history the year before, he'd think Quinn would avoid being around jocks and alcohol.

It wasn't a good combination.

  


* * *

Sprawled on the couch, Kurt tapped away at his laptop and smiled at the results he saw on Flickr. Burt had found some possible listings: just outside of Marion, Montana, in the hills above Wallace, Idaho, and a serious fixer-upper in Granby, Colorado. He'd never known such places existed. Their names meant nothing to him. That was the point, he supposed.

Looking up those locations filled him with another thought, as foolish as he knew it was: they all looked like The Sound of Music. "I will not sing," he told himself as he looked at those gentle green slopes descending from snowcapped peaks.

He would sing.

In those places a mile looked so very far. In Lima he was afraid to step out of his own front door and a mile straight up held only empty air. There he saw empty spaces without prying eyes, and a mile up or down would reveal a river or a mountain peak to survey the valley floor.

Kurt still wanted that old life that had been denied to him. Of course he did; his new life had so far been such a shallow, pained thing that kept him trapped in the darkness. Those slopes that seemed like a setting for Julie Andrews, though... they looked _good._

He'd almost forgotten what good felt like, at least outside fleeting moments.

Burt must have gotten up early to find the listings, as they were waiting in Kurt's email when he woke. It was a wonderful way to start the day. Of course it wouldn't be any of _those_ houses; they'd long be sold when they were ready to move. And Kurt quickly came to the same conclusions that Burt had, mentioned in one line in his email: Colorado was expectedly expensive and Montana surprisingly so. Wyoming was cheap except in the green western sliver that made Kurt's heart flutter to look at; _that_ blew away Colorado. They might do better further west. Idaho or Utah. They wanted space and a view and little else; there was no need to pay a premium.

Kurt processed his thoughts and had to stifle a laugh. _Him_ , already idolizing some tiny little mountain getaway in two famously conservative states. The twists and turns of one's life.

Besides, even if he could trust someone not to be using him and with the secret of his family's age, he didn't know when he would be able to handle any sort of romantic relationship. Once, Santana licking him would have earned a shriek of disgust while he pushed her away. He wouldn't have tensed when Puck or Finn clapped his shoulder; if he did, it would be with the expectation of some schoolyard bullying and nothing worse.

But now he was broken. His body healed but his spirit was still spiderwebbed with a million tiny cracks. Kurt didn't know when those cracks would fade. The politics of his chosen home were a lot less important than whether it had land and rivers and open skies. By the time he was ready to trust someone and let him into his life, anywhere he lived might be ready for that. It was something to hope for, anyway. And he had the time.

"Hey," Kurt said idly to himself as he roamed around a satellite view in Google Maps. "Montana has a Lima."

While he was sure it was a perfectly nice town, that was one place he crossed off his mental list.

He continued zipping around the overhead view, marveling at the landscape sloppily dappled with snowy ridges rather than the forced rhythm of farmers' fields. When his phone rang with a fresh text message, just before the school day ended, it took him a few seconds to snap out of his daze.

 _Check JBIs blog :))_

Kurt's eyebrows raised at the message from Mercedes. Whatever Finn had done that day, it must be posted. He really hoped Finn wasn't making too big an idiot of himself. He did tend toward idiocy during his big gestures, and Kurt had the distinct feeling Finn was fumbling for the right big gesture to force everything into a happy, forgiven state between them. He'd looked so hurt when Kurt flinched away from him. More hurt than Kurt would have ever expected.

"Okay, Finn," he said, browsing there and hoping he wouldn't be taken by surprise by some other story headlining the blog. "Amaze me."

It wasn't just Finn, but Kurt was amazed.

"We got the idea from a drunk driving awareness day at another school," Rachel informed the camera. That she was willingly staying within proximity to Jacob spoke of her dedication; unsurprisingly, the boy had zoomed in on her face. "When Finn and Santana showed up with new members in tow on Monday, we had that complete and utter lightbulb moment. We spent yesterday preparing, and well...." She gestured grandly and Jacob zoomed out to show her entire upper body.

Her smile was as brilliant at the sun as she struck a pose with a sign on her chest. A piece of paper pinned to her sweater was carefully lettered with one sentence: 'My dad gave me piggyback rides when I was little.' Below those words, taped securely to the paper, was a brown and white feather.

The video cut to Tina wearing a similar sign. Hers read 'I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up.' The feather was jet black. "Our message?" she answered to Jacob's prompt. "It's simple. They're people, like any of us. It _could_ have been any of us."

"And to pretend otherwise is just wrong," Mercedes agreed as the camera moved to her. It took Kurt a second to process her sign, as the statement didn't work for Mercedes Jones. 'I read my brothers a book every night.' She didn't have younger brothers... but some Angel in some other town certainly did. Their signs were possible stories of people from all around the world, stories that had been crushed beneath the heel of uncaring humanity.

A boy Kurt didn't recognize tended his family's water buffalo every morning. His feather was bright red. A girl from freshman biology class lost her mom to sickness and had to look after her little sister. Her feather was tipped in grey, maybe a gull's. Another girl walked three miles to school every day, and her feather was brown streaked with black. He had no idea whether they had some real guilt over the world's cruelty or whether they were simply doing what the popular kids said, but Kurt didn't have it in him to care. The sight of those signs, of the statement they made... it was beautiful.

As a little girl, Santana dreamt of being a bride. She had an amused smirk on her face and shrugged.

Brittany had two pet dogs and a goat. She kept looking around for them.

Mike wanted to have three kids, and Puck was going to backpack around Europe. Artie wanted to be the first person in his family to finish school.

Finn helped out at his dad's garage. His feather was white.

As a choked sob tore out of him, Kurt put his hand to his mouth and tried not to break down. He sucked in deep, gasping breaths as tears began to stream down his face. They flowed without any hope of stopping and his sliver of control failed. Air fled from his lungs, replaced in loud gulps, and Kurt just managed to set the laptop on the coffee table before he dropped it entirely.

His tears were splattering the worn leather of the couch when he heard the garage door rise and fall. Kurt wiped at his eyes with one sleeve, then his nose, and gulped for more air through a constricted throat. He was just managing to get his legs under him when Finn walked through the door. Though his sign wasn't on his chest, he had a hopeful smile on his face that dropped away when he saw Kurt's eyes. "Something's wrong," he instantly concluded.

"No," Kurt whispered. "Thank you. I saw the video. It was amazing."

When Finn squeezed his shoulder, Kurt didn't think of moving away. They both let the contact linger, smiling at each other, until Finn finally traced a few circles with his thumb and finally pulled away. When Kurt heard the noise behind Finn he realized the reason, and looked at the door with puzzlement as it opened again. That sounded louder than Santana.

"Hey," Puck said shortly as he walked in, followed by Mike. "We're gonna set our stuff down and then help in Artie."

"What's going on?" Kurt asked, befuddled.

"You promised me we'd do Rock Band again," Finn said, a grin threatening to erupt. "Well, we're going to do it here."

"That's...." Kurt laughed, shrugging. He still felt giddy. "Okay."

When Mike returned to the garage and Puck followed, the latter did a double take and drew back. "Whoa."

Kurt wiped at his eyes again. "What?"

"Your eyes are, like, yellow."

"Gold. Yellow would be if I had jaundice." Kurt laughed at himself; stray tears were still coming. "They're just bloodshot. I've been crying." He shook his head, picturing all that blood so near the surface. The blue of his tear-darkened irises must be brilliant, like lapis in a twenty-two karat setting. "Are they glowing?"

Puck began to dumbly repeat, "Are they _glow_ —" but cut off mid-word. He laughed once, his eyebrows raised, and he said, "Yeah, just a little. Wild."

"It'll fade," Kurt said, waving him off and exhaling again in an attempt to gain control. "Go help Artie." Turning back to Finn, who seemed to be marveling at his happiness, Kurt half-laughed, "They're just glowing a little."

Obviously amused and far beyond pleased at his reaction, Finn shrugged back at him. "It's kinda pretty. In a weird way. Like you're Jean Grey or something."

"The Phoenix?" Kurt remembered from the movies Finn had forced upon him. "No more bird metaphors," he insisted, but it felt like a running joke instead of another reminder of something chipping away at his humanity and future. "And no more X-Men. I don't... I can't...." Finally able to swallow down his surging emotions, he said, "Whoever had that idea, thank you. That was the most beautiful thing I've seen since... since everything."

"Totally mine," Tina said proudly, having walked through the door just in time to hear that. Startled, Kurt accepted a one-armed hug from her that steered clear of any dangerous contact, and then looked at Finn for an explanation. At that moment he couldn't possibly be tense around any of them, but it was just such a _surprise._

"We're going to play Rock Band like I promised," Finn repeated. His teeth were very white when he smiled that broadly. "All of us."

"You brought New Directions here," Kurt realized as the door swung open again and Mike and Puck carried Artie over the garage step. Once Artie was through the door, it was like a dam had been breached and the people behind him were free to follow: Mercedes, Santana, Brittany. "How did you all fit in...?"

"Couple of cars parked out in front," Finn said, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We came in all together so I could put down the door." He looked inordinately pleased with himself. Kurt couldn't blame him, or any of them. It didn't fix everything. He didn't know if other people at the school had even cared about the signs, or what the next day would be like. But for that moment, he felt good. He felt loved. It was like rain landing on parched ground so life might be able to struggle through hard times to follow.

"Makes sense," Kurt said helplessly as he turned to watch everyone cluster in the living room. Puck and Mike started digging out plastic instruments and setting them up in front of the television sized for their entire group. Mercedes, the most comfortable in the house, had zeroed in on the best supply of snacks and was raiding them for everyone.

When Kurt turned around, the last person had come in from the garage. He smiled at her. Rachel smiled back. "It's very good to see you," she said formally. "Since everyone was coming over, it only seemed right that, well... _everyone_ come over."

"Absolutely," he said.

She still seemed nervous and unsure below her friendly words. But she met his eyes. "I've never played this before. Puck kept telling me that I was absolutely not allowed to hog the microphone, and I promised I wouldn't."

"Well," Kurt said very seriously, "we'll see how long you hold to that promise. I'll set up a betting pool."

"Oh, stop," Rachel said, laughing and pushing at his arm. Her hand jerked back as soon as she made contact, like she was terrified she'd done something wrong. Very gently but surely, he placed his hand over hers and steered her toward the rest of his friends.

His head was spinning, Kurt thought as he somehow got four bars into Airplanes before processing that he'd been singing along with every note. Artie leaned over and took over at the rap section, Kurt reclaimed the microphone for Hayley Williams, and they finished with only a minimum of mistakes from the trade-off.

"Sing something happier!" Mercedes insisted, pushing him on the knees. He was perched on one arm of the couch, angling his back safely away from the crowd, and rocked with the motion.

As the instrumentalists assured him that he should just pick whatever and they could keep up, Kurt shrugged and began scrolling through the massive archive of songs. There were old versions in there, Finn explained, and purchased numbers. He pointed to the symbol meaning that a song had been bought off the store and said that they could look for more, if Kurt wanted.

No need. Kurt grinned, looking pointedly at Finn. "You didn't show me all these songs last time."

"You weren't into this last time," Finn said back. He saw where Kurt's cursor had stilled and, when the other boys looked amused, explained, "Look, they were all doing that performance with the crazy outfits and everything, and I was worried Mr. Schue'd make the rest of us do it, too."

Kurt ignored their mocking as he practically squirmed with happiness like some overexcited puppy. A full Lady Gaga song pack, his for the taking.

One last solo was his, and then Mercedes insisted on leaning in. It soon turned into more of a group number with one person sure to actually sing into the microphone for credit. When someone's throat dried out, they stopped for a drink or made an attempt at an instrument. People failed songs left and right and soon 'easy' was the only difficulty chosen.

As Rachel flailed helplessly with the mistake of choosing a random playlist, Kurt felt fresh tears form. They were purely from laughter. Rachel Berry was singing Red Hot Chili Peppers and Avenged Sevenfold followed. The sight of her singing frantically along with the unfamiliar piece, nearly failing despite the forgiving difficulty, meant that Kurt wasn't the only person about to double over.

"That," Rachel said dramatically when the song was over and she'd forced the microphone on the next singer, "hardly counted as music!"

Santana's random selection gave her Paramore and the Beach Boys. Rachel's continued complaints only drew more laughter.

That was when Kurt realized that his parents were standing in the garage hallway, looking confused but well beyond pleased. "Hey everyone," Carole said uncertainly. "Are we interrupting something?"

"Finn brought everyone over," Kurt said, smiling and shrugging. "It's been great."

"Well okay," Burt said slowly, seeming to marvel at the sight as he looked around. "Then, uh... here," he continued, digging through his pocket and then placing three twenty-dollar bills in Finn's hand. "You kids order pizza. Get drinks, pasta, dessert, anything you want. The two of us will go out to dinner." Then he looked at Carole and laughed helplessly. "Come on, we're going out to dinner."

"We're going out to dinner," Carole repeated. She impulsively grabbed Kurt's head and kissed its crown, then stepped away while Finn laughed at him. "You all have fun, I guess?"

They did. They laughed, sang, and joked like the year before. When the pizza came Kurt and Rachel relocated to the kitchen, where he found her the components of a decent salad and grabbed an orange for himself. He was ready to hang back during the time when everyone ate and presumably loaded the room with the odor of sausage and pepperoni, but was surprised to realize he didn't catch that scent of death on the air.

"C'mon," Finn encouraged him, waving them both back to the group. "Knew it'd be a ton of pizza smelling up the place, so it's all veggie and cheese."

People tried to sing with half-chewed pizza clogging their notes. They fought over the last convenient slice instead of reaching for a further box. They groaned when an impossible song came up on random play, cheered for favorites, and laughed whenever someone was forced into an awkward genre. When Kurt finished an Anthrax song and practically threw the microphone at the next person, he bowed and everyone applauded. Puck got Blondie. The laughter returned, and then the applause.

"We destroyed this place," Finn eventually laughed when it was well into evening and the others had vacated. Each one had made physical contact on the way out, whether it was a full hug that Kurt carefully steered away from the wings or a simple handshake. The living room was a wasteland of empty pizza boxes and soda cans. "Better get a trash bag, and... Kurt?" he asked when the boy didn't move. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt finally said when he tore his eyes away from the evidence of friends. "I'm great."

"Really?" Finn asked hopefully as he went off in search of where the big trash bags were kept under the sink. "All better?"

"No," Kurt admitted. "This didn't... tonight didn't really fix anything, and I don't know if what happened today will." Finn's expression dropped, but Kurt continued gently, "But I'm happy. And I don't get that very much. So thank you. Whatever happens tomorrow and in the days after that, I had today."

For a second Finn still looked like he wanted him to say that it had fixed everything, but he relented into smiling and nodding. "Well, good."

"Come on," Kurt said and started gathering up boxes. "We'll get this cleaned up before they get home."

Whatever his life had in store, on that day he'd been truly happy.


	12. Chapter 12

"High schoolers are idealistic," Quinn Fabray said into Jacob Ben Israel's camera the next day. "You see all those ads on television saying that the world is suffering and the current generation can take care of things so much better. Well, every single graduating class is told that they're the ones who will finally make some changes."

The reason for her irritation was obvious. Though nothing like a majority of the school, students occasionally passed her with feathers pinned to the strap of a bag or stuck through their hair. The gleam of youthful idealism was in their eyes.

"Nothing ever changes," she said bluntly to the camera. "The people with those feathers are never going to change the world. Finn Hudson is going to go back to his old job at Sheets N' Things. Permanently. Mercedes Jones will be a tragic statistic about heart disease. Santana Lopez will spend most of her life battling a recurring personal itch."

Over her shoulder, Azimio chortled to himself in disbelief. "Damn, blondie. We should've hung out earlier."

"So if they want to waste their time," Quinn continued archly, "then I guess I can't stop them. But I'm going to take what high school has to offer. All of my friends are."

"Best time of our lives!" Azimio agreed and high-fived Karofsky next to him. They both shouted to match the words, even if Azimio was the only one who looked to believe them.

"And representing the cynical side of the equation...." Jacob began, but Quinn held up one hand.

"The realist side. Popularity is real. Homecoming or prom queen is real. Parties every night this week are real. Pretending to care about a bunch of things that they used to dream about owning? Fake. By this time next year they'll be talking about the homeless and animal shelters and smelly refugees."

"You're still making a pretty strong argument for the cynical side of things, I've gotta say," said Jacob's offscreen voice.

"All right. Here's a cynical question for you. If they're such bleeding hearts," Quinn wondered, "then why didn't they care about those poor little Angels before one of their friends was collared? At least I'm not a hypocrite," she said, turning to face someone passing her in the halls.

Rachel stared levelly back. "That's very much up for debate, Quinn."

"Speaking of those parties," Jacob continued, and Rachel took the opportunity to slip away, "I hear they're getting pretty wild. Tell me, where do you guys get all your supplies?"

"What, booze?" Azimio asked. "Liquor cabinets, older bros hitting stores, you know. Whatever."

"It's what keeps people coming back to the parties, so we find ways," Quinn shrugged. Something in her eyes said she hated being around the stuff, let alone the increasingly loud and drunken crowds that packed those nightly parties, but it was a flash and nothing more. The message that replaced it: and she always gave people exactly what they wanted, whether it was beer or justification.

That was the platform she would use for winning a plastic tiara and for having people get out of her way in the halls. Because once she left high school, her life would be as dire as the future she'd foretold for the others. Most people wouldn't have heard that in Quinn's voice on the video. Kurt did. He had a year and a half before his life began. She was convinced that she had a year and a half before her life ended.

The stages of grief. Denial, anger, acceptance. He remembered going through those when he'd been collared. At some point she'd apparently gone through the same, and accepted a life like her mother's: trapped. Unhappy. Stuck in a town she'd spent years insulting. Destined for a marriage to a man she didn't really love, that would one day fall apart.

"You're way more of a party animal than you were before," Jacob pointed out to Quinn.

"Well," she shrugged, and someone who'd known her in her vulnerable moments would hear something distantly related to tears, "might as well make the most of Lima, right? No one's getting out of here." Her eyes hardened. "Even the people you think will... no. There are no big dreams," she said with more truth than she probably intended to reveal, "so we might as well take what we have. And we might as well fantasize about what we should be allowed to do."

It was less like some tabloid horror show and more like a documentary. One of horrible, awful things that turned Kurt's stomach, true, but Quinn's actions suddenly had a lot more weight behind them.

He was supposed to do big things. He was supposed to be one of those people who gave her hope.

She was angry with him. His future crumbling meant, in some twisted way, that hers also had. Such a huge tragedy had served as a rallying cry for some of his friends, or a push for self-reflection. For Quinn, it made her panic. She had to justify a distance between them. She never had any feelings for him. He wasn't even a him. Her already-fragile hopes for a better future than her mother's couldn't have rested even one tiny bit on Kurt Hummel.

Of course, that didn't mean that the people around her knew all those multi-layered motivations. They just heard her saying that they should succumb to their basest urges, and that Kurt was a simple object.

Yeah, his sympathy was limited.

"You've been awfully quiet through all of this," Jacob mused.

Karofsky's head jerked up and he looked startled at the attention. "Just don't want to talk to you. Whatever. Quinn just makes sense."

"Exactly," Quinn said. "While those morons are parading around in their feathers like some cheap Indian chief costume for Halloween, I'm telling people the truth. They're not wrong to have these feelings. It's not wrong to act on them. They're not wrong." She stroked her hands down Azimio's arm almost lovingly, then Karofsky's. "Nothing you want is wrong." But when they apparently didn't agree to her desired level of enthusiasm, Quinn rolled her eyes. "Oh, just go get drunk again tonight. You're good at that, if absolutely _nothing_ else."

"Boy," Jacob said wryly as her two hangers-on ambled away, shooting her dirty looks. "No wonder you're so popular."

"I _am_ popular," Quinn said like that excused everything. When she stormed away, Quinn only stopped long enough to rip down the feather taped to Sue Sylvester's door.

"Someone put it there as a dare," Jacob shouted helpfully after her.

"Well," Quinn snarled as she kept walking, "she didn't take it off."

  


* * *

Kurt shook his head as he closed the window of Jacob's blog, wondering why he'd gone there unprompted at all. Quinn had been outright abusive to Finn during their time together, but she'd learned and grown during her time outside the spotlight. Every step backward she now made was deliberate. Purposeful.

Because she couldn't bring herself to throw off the weight of what she thought her life would be and the completely illogical 'betrayal' of his own suffering, she was worse than she'd ever been. Someone was going to get hurt. For the first time since hearing about her teaming up with the worst of his bullies, Kurt didn't think of himself as the only possible victim. Drunk drivers, free-flowing alcohol, teenagers barely able to come out from under their hangovers before they drove to the newest party... someone was going to end up in a body bag from these bacchanalias. Hospital bed. Jail cell.

He wondered which of the three options she'd actually feel guilty over.

The weight of who Finn thought he had to be had warped him as surely as Quinn. He _had_ to be popular. He _had_ to rule the school and not step one inch away from the life he'd thought he'd lead. If that meant that he'd shove Kurt's face out in public when he wanted to stay hidden away, then he'd do it. But Finn had realized his mistake, at least somewhat, and he'd worn that sign and feather.

Kurt wondered if it were possible for Quinn to see the path she'd chosen, too. It was a rockier path than Finn's by far, and she'd gone much so further down it, but surely she had to realize she didn't _have_ to treat high school like a zero-sum game. It wasn't a cheerleading pyramid. Someone didn't have to be at the bottom so she could rise to the top.

When he thought of her snapping at his bullies and telling them to get drunk, Kurt sighed. Even they were just warm bodies with no purpose but stepping stones. When she hadn't lived up to what her parents demanded, they threw her out. People were disposable and dreams died easily.

As absurd as it was, considering everything, for one short moment Kurt was grateful for his life.

"I, uh, took down my profile pic," Finn said that evening.

"Oh?" Kurt said in a carefully neutral voice.

"Realized it wasn't a good idea to put up a picture of you. After people did, you know, some stuff with it."

Kurt didn't want to know. "Well," he said, "at least you took it down after that." Silence hung between them. No. He really didn't want to know. But he suspected. "Quinn's being so awful," he finally said.

Finn groaned. "Did you watch more videos?" When Kurt nodded, he flopped onto his bed and pulled off his shoes. "Don't wanna say you _can't_ look, but... but I wouldn't, you know? She is being a total bitch."

"She's scared," Kurt said.

Finn looked at him oddly. "Uh, no. She's back into hyper mega bitch queen of the school mode, and that's like three hundred and sixty degrees away from 'scared.'"

Kurt decided not to correct his geometry. "Just trust me on this. It doesn't excuse what she's doing, but it explains it. She's scared. She's drowning and she's grabbing for anything in reach. She doesn't care if she pushes me under in the process.

"People who are scared of the world... people who scared they're not good enough, or that they won't have a bright future, or whatever it is?" Kurt sighed. "They're so easy to manipulate. They want to have _someone_ to blame for a world that doesn't have much for them." Or he thought so, anyway. He'd gotten into reading political blogs during the '08 election. That was a theory floated for some of the worst behaviors seen at rallies, and he had the unfortunate feeling that it was true.

"Have you seen who she's hanging out with most of the time?" Finn asked dubiously. "I don't think Azimio and Karofsky are scared of anything."

Probably true. "Well," Kurt allowed. "Some people are just thinking with the wrong head."

"Gross," Finn laughed. "So... all those people who think owning Angels is okay... are they scared?" he wondered.

"No," Kurt said, pulling his knees to his chest. "They're the ones who vote for American Idol and forget to vote for president. They just don't care."

"This sucks," Finn said, interlacing his fingers behind his head and flopping back. "We came up with this awesome idea, people are getting into it, and even a few teachers grabbed feathers. Teachers! When do they ever get into student stuff, you know? Remember that time we tried to recruit for Glee and Mrs. Kozinski threw acorns at us?"

"It was the weirdest thing," Kurt admitted. "Who even keeps acorns on hand?"

"I just thought that since we found this awesome thing that, you know... it'd fix things. Things should all be okay. People should stop being stupid."

A metaphor came to mind and Kurt found himself saying, "I'm a big rock."

Finn looked oddly at him. "Uh. Gonna need a little more on that one."

Grinning a little, Kurt said, "Landing in a pond. My whole... everything, it's like this town was a pond and I made some very big ripples. Tina and Mercedes are all into social justice now, and Rachel's turned her... absolutely terrifying personal drive toward the same thing. Their lives might not be anything like they pictured. Santana, for as absolutely crass as she can be, has actually shown some consideration toward me that she never would have managed before. Puck's looked out for me. He was my first friend request on Xbox," Kurt added, laughing. His humor died when he continued, "But those big ripples pushed Quinn in the other direction. Some change has been good. But some's been bad. And I don't think you can fix it."

"What about me?"

"What about you what?" Kurt asked, brows dipping together.

"How have I changed?" Finn asked.

"Oh." His frown deepened. Sometimes Finn was sweet and considerate. Sometimes he was thoughtlessly hurtful. He veered between caring for his friends and caring for that intangible construct known as popularity. The volume on his personality might have been turned up, but the core elements seemed the same. "I don't think you really have," Kurt concluded.

That didn't seem to be the answer Finn wanted to hear. He was supposed to be different. A grand hero with a grand future ahead, not the teenage boy who did some things right, screwed up others, and still hadn't settled on that question of what he wanted to be when he grew up. "Oh."

Well, really the only thing Kurt could say was that he _very_ much doubted pre-capture Finn would have been having casual conversations with him while Kurt came with pleased wails. But somehow, he suspected that wasn't quite what Finn meant.

"I really did take the pic down as soon as I saw... what people were doing," Finn continued, seemingly determined to prove himself. "I guess it was stupid to have it up in the first place. It was just... kinda cool to see myself next to you. Sorry."

Kurt thought about saying 'it's okay,' but it wasn't. After all, those uses of the photograph—whatever they might be—were still going on. Considering that people had already photoshopped him for that stupid Facebook group, he had a strong suspicion for what had been done with a post-wings picture. It involved his face, his wings, and a different body that was conveniently unclothed.

Ugh. No, it wasn't okay. But there wasn't anything to be done. So, thinking of the sight of Finn with his sign and feather, Kurt instead said, "Forgiven."

"So," Finn awkwardly continued. "Big game on Saturday. We win it, we're headed to state. Us at state. Pretty amazing, huh? It could really happen."

"Amazing," Kurt agreed. His attention started to roam back toward a fresh round of listings that Burt had sent.

"Me," Finn continued, "starting quarterback for this game. And I'd start at state."

"Yep, I've got the whole concept down," Kurt agreed, not looking up.

"Some people came up and talked to me when I was wearing the sign," Finn said hopefully. "They asked if Angels really were just people before they, you know, changed."

Kurt finally looked up. Finn grinned at the attention. "And how did that conversation go?"

"Great! I think they'll probably put on feathers tomorrow. The signs were kind of one-shot deals, because some teachers bitched about us 'disrupting class,' but the feathers seem to be sticking around." Finn considered matters. "They thought Angels looked exactly the same but with wings, before they saw that picture of you. I guess I'd thought that, too."

"Most people do, I suppose," Kurt said. He could feel his expression closing off at the reminder of that damn profile picture. "You'd expect people to look different when they show up in public again after all their training, but just from aging. I suppose I proved otherwise."

"Yeah," Finn said, uncertain at his tone.

"Finn?" Kurt finally asked, unable to squelch his curiosity. "The people you saw... doing things with my picture? Are they the people who're going to Quinn's parties?" The people being toyed with. The people washing away good sense with free-flowing alcohol. The people, Kurt suspected, with no hope for any better life than what they had.

He was their sole hope. Their hope for a really killer session of masturbation that took them away from the here and now.

"Yeah," Finn admitted. "Same people."

Quinn was scared. So were those people who listened to her.

Well, so was he.

  


* * *

"Hey," Burt said shortly, extending his hand toward Mercedes' father when Saturday night finally arrived. They'd raised the garage door so he could pull inside before Kurt stepped out of the Navigator. It was beginning to feel like he was in deep space and could only be transported safely between airlocks. "Look, I don't want to sound like I don't trust you, but—"

Dr. Jones was a smaller man than Kurt had expected before meeting him for the first time, and with the sort of gentle intelligence that kept his mental label firmly as "Dr." no matter how many times he'd prodded Kurt toward using his first name. "Police are on speed dial on every receiver. Windows are closed and locked. Not answering any calls unless they're from the cops or you."

At the recitation, Burt sighed and sagged under the weight of everything he'd asked him to do. "I know it sounds like a lot—"

"Don't worry about it, Burt. No trouble at all. I'm taking this seriously." His voice dropped further, probably quiet enough that he thought only the other father could hear. "I have no idea how you handled this at all."

"I didn't," Burt said shortly. His voice rose to include his son. "Okay, I'll be back over after the game. Finn drove himself earlier, so Carole can ride back with him if they want to go get pizza or something. I won't wait."

"Aye aye," Kurt said at his serious, clipped tone, and Burt managed to smile a bit. "We're just watching a couple of movies, Dad."

"I know," Burt said. "And this is stupid. You're alone a lot during the days, right?"

"I sure am," Kurt agreed. He glanced at Dr. Jones and saw him fighting back a smile, although it was soft and without any judgment. "I'll see you after the game. Yell loud. Insult the other team's physical prowess. Wear your gloves." Burt began to snort, but Kurt spoke over him. "It's going to start snowing soon, so wear your gloves."

He grumbled, but a grin was on his face when he reached into his pockets and started pulling them on. "It's just easier," Burt told Dr. Jones, who stopped trying to hide his amusement. "Okay, be back in a few hours. Love you, kiddo."

"Love you too, Dad," Kurt said. He retreated to the door leading into the house as the Navigator pulled away. Carole had been watching from the front seat; he waved and she waved back.

"So, Kurt," Dr. Jones began as he closed the garage and escorted the teens inside. "Been a while since you've come over. How've you, um."

"How've I been?" Kurt finished wryly, and the man looked ready to cover his face with his hands over the instinctual but misguided question. "Had some ups and downs."

He begged off quickly, directing them to Mercedes' room, and soon the two were piled in there like always. Dragging out a bean bag chair when she eyed how much of her bed Kurt took up with the wings overlapping each shoulder, Mercedes flopped onto it and stretched. "We have so many people talking to us," she said. "It's so great."

"With the signs and feathers and everything?"

She nodded. "It's like people are figuring out that, wow, it could have been _anyone._ You know?" Mercedes looked suddenly uncomfortable and risked asking, "You've watched the videos, right?"

"I keep telling myself not to," Kurt said. "But I always do."

"So you've seen everything Quinn's said." She looked so sad, suddenly. "It's so wrong. It's just... you don't think we're all like that, do you?"

"What?" he asked in befuddlement.

"My church has prayed for you. Not because you're what Quinn says, but because we want your family to be okay." She looked so hopeful. "I swear, we're not using the book as a weapon."

He opened his mouth, decided against a hundred responses that wanted to come out, and settled on, "Thanks."

It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders and Mercedes sprang to her feet to begin the particulars of the evening. A ringtone interrupted her, and after a quick glance Mercedes rolled her eyes and threw her phone to land on her pillow. "Dumb." When Kurt made an inquisitive noise, she shook her head and said, "Tina just texted me. She heard from Mike that a chunk of the team showed up drunk out of their minds. Coach Beiste kicked them out of the locker room and said they were done for the night."

"Before 'the big game?'" Kurt asked, fingerquoting. "And here I thought that's how the jock species earned their self-worth."

"Species?" Mercedes repeated, giggling.

"It feels like it sometimes. Although maybe I shouldn't be talking about different species," he amended quietly.

"Don't you even start," she ordered. "You are a person just like me, except that you are _gorgeous_ and will stay that way when I'm getting a facelift."

"You are gorgeous," he immediately said back, "and if I ever hear word of you getting plastic surgery, I'll... I'll... do something," Kurt finished lamely. "Something dramatic, just you wait and see."

"No," Mercedes said. "You? Dramatic? Never."

"Oh, shut up," he told her, pitching a pillow at her head, and then had to block a return blow.

"But seriously," she said as she began to dig through her DVDs. "You're... I don't know if I can even say this. But have you looked at yourself?" From the tone to her voice, Kurt could almost feel the flaming heat of her blushing. "I mean. We have."

God, he hoped she hadn't gotten off like some of the others. "I try not to spend much time in front of the mirror," he said, hoping she'd take the hint and change topics. "So there's another change since last year," he added with a laugh.

She didn't take the hint, possibly because she was still half-occupied with finding a movie. "Seriously," Mercedes continued, "you should hear Finn give all these excuses for why you guys aren't in a new house yet. Oh sure, it was so much easier to move out of their place early when it went up for sale. Oh sure, he doesn't mind if the house takes forever to close. And you guys don't need to look for a new house early, or any... thing...." she trailed off when she turned, movie in hand, and saw Kurt's wide eyes.

"What?" Kurt slowly asked. "Finn's not... it's all just very logical. They could keep their house clean to show buyers if they moved in early with us. And it does take a while to close on a house. I mean, it just does."

Mercedes put in the movie, smirking. "Whatever you say. I'm just saying, the guy's spent a whole lot of time talking about how you look. Most of the time he doesn't have a clue he's doing it."

Kurt stared at a far point on the wall as the movie began. He didn't even know what was playing. "No way," he finally concluded.

He'd come while Finn worked him, over and over.

"No way," he repeated.

Mercedes seemed to catch something in his voice and looked at him a little oddly. "It's not like it's just him. After Wednesday Mike wouldn't shut up about you. Brittany and Santana are just...." She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Are just being Brittany and Santana. Boy, do not tell me you're going down _that_ road again."

Kurt shook his head mutely. No. Any future partner would have to be trusted with what he was. They'd have to be trusted with knowledge of their family's true nature. And there might be exactly one boy in all the world who currently qualified there, but that didn't mean Kurt felt like all his dreams were coming true. He was too overwhelmed and dizzy from trying to reassess every time Finn had touched him, if Finn had been doing it out of even a vague sense of attraction.

"Promise me," she said more seriously. "You're not going to start thinking like _that._ "

"I'm really not," Kurt agreed. "Let's just... movie. A movie would be good." He didn't even want to think about the possibility that Finn was looking at him differently, because that was a surprise he could not handle that evening. Not after a week and a half of watching videos all about how he _was_ different, and nothing more than an object of lust. He just wanted to settle in, watch a movie, and pretend for a few hours that it was 2009 and no wings were above him as he sprawled on Mercedes' bed.

The DVD menu popped up and Kurt wrinkled his nose. Mercedes saw his expression and looked confused. "What? You love this movie."

He _did_ love Moulin Rouge. Or he had. But he'd flashed ahead through its storyline: someone valued only for what she could bring to the bedroom, desperately wanting more. Being judged for being in a situation that left her suffering. Dying at the end. "Can we watch something else?" he asked weakly, and Mercedes obliged even with her obvious confusion.

"Here," Mercedes decided, putting something else in. "Came out a week ago, and you would have... well, you would have missed it in the theatres. It's _so_ good. You'll totally cry."

"I don’t want to cry!" Kurt began to protest, but cut off and shot her a disbelieving look when a CG Mr. Potato Head ambled across the menu screen. "I'm going to cry at Toy Story 3?" he asked, smirking.

"Everyone does," she said definitively. "Just. Wow. There's this scene where it's so tense, and then when... and a scene with goodbyes, and—" She put her hands up to block another thrown pillow. "Okay! Not spoiling any more."

They settled in for the opening fantasy sequence. Kurt found himself sighing, "We're back into the big movie season. And I don't get to see any of them. I miss movie theatres, and their overpriced concession stands and sticky floors."

"No you don't," Mercedes laughed. "You always complained about them."

"I do," Kurt said nostalgically. "I miss sticky theatre floors. I miss public restrooms with questionable cleaning practices. Malls with unflattering lighting. Traffic jams during construction. Pop quizzes."

Mercedes smiled lopsidedly. "Guess I don't think about all the stuff I see every day."

"Yeah," Kurt said, folding his arms on the bedcover and propping his head on them. Now the toys onscreen were abandoned in a chest, left to gather dust as the world moved on around them. Andy was older. They never would be.

Maybe they should have watched Moulin Rouge.

"Well," Mercedes said conspiratorially, "don't tell anyone, but Artie's tracking down... 'alternate methods' of letting you watch movies."

"Torrenting a video someone made in a theatre?" Kurt guessed.

"It sounded sneakier my way," she complained. "He's gonna burn them to discs and make covers and everything. It'll be fun. We can come over and have big movie nights, like we're all going out. Okay?"

"That does sound fun," he agreed, and their conversation naturally fell away as they got into the plot. So many movies came out around the holidays. People could come over all the time. It _would_ be fun. Maybe they'd even surprise him like Finn had with the impromptu Rock Band party. His life was so dull; he could use a bit of the unexpected.

The toys had just started planning a prison break when a heavy thump sounded against the side of the house. Kurt and Mercedes frowned at each other. "What was that?" she wondered and went to look. When she didn't come back immediately, Kurt got up and followed her to the living room.

Dr. Jones was looking up with mild concern. "Sounded like a bird flew into the side of the house or something," he said. Another thump sounded and his frown dipped further. "Stay back, kids," he told them as he moved aside the curtains on a window and looked out.

"Hey!" shouted someone outside when that sliver of light hit the evening. The word sounded clumsy. "Lopez said... come out!"

"What?" Mercedes wondered and joined her father at the window even as he told her to get away. As soon as she peered through it, she did move back. Quickly. "It's a bunch of guys," she said, swallowing. "I think it must be... it's the guys on the team."

Everything went cold and still. "The ones who are drunk out of their minds," Kurt said.

"Yeah."

"The ones who have spent the last week talking about how they should be able to do anything they want to me."

She swallowed. "Yeah."

"Great," Kurt said, voice skipping up higher than he intended.

"We just wanna see it!" yelled a voice he didn't recognize. "C'mon."

"Why does... why Hudson? Why don't we get to...?"

"Send it out," yelled a voice that sounded like Azimio. "Not gonna hurt it."

"Yeah," laughed yet another voice. "Not gonna _hurt_ it."

"Dr. Jones," Kurt said, beginning to shake. "I think you should call the police."

The phone was already in his hand and his thumb was pressing the speed dial. It was quiet outside as he explained what was going on. Either the jocks had gotten bored and were wandering away or they were waiting with mounting irritation over their 'request' being ignored. Kurt feared the latter.

Sure enough, soon after Dr. Jones hung up they heard "Come on!" shouted more fiercely. "This ain't _fair!_ Why does Hudson get to fuck it every night and we don't get a shot?"

"What?" Kurt boggled. "Oh my God, they think that—"

"Get down," Dr. Jones told them insistently, and they did so just before the thumps started up again. Rocks, Kurt realized with shock. They were throwing rocks at the house.

"I don't know what Quinn thought would happen," Mercedes gritted out as they both flattened themselves against the carpet. "Getting everyone all riled up, then adding in a bunch of alcohol to the mix? These guys are idiots. They didn't need much."

"We just want what Hudson got!"

"They wanted to humiliate me for years, and so they did," Kurt pointed out. His heart was jackhammering in his chest. "Now they want to... yeah. They _really_ don't need much to be prodded into hurting me."

More thumps started, and from different directions. They were spreading out. Fear filled the house. Mercedes clutched Kurt's hand so hard it began to hurt, but he didn't dare shake it free. "They'll go away," she finally said. "They're not really gonna do anything. They just want to scare us."

No, he corrected. There was no 'us.' The Jones family was not a target. The attackers outside had no desire to hurt them. If they tried to scare them, it was out of sloppy, scattershot sadism. Whatever happened would treat them as collateral damage, nothing more. The only person they really wanted was Kurt.

"Don't you move," said Dr. Jones as he saw Kurt tense to stand. "You are staying on that floor. I've already called the police and they'll be here soon."

"Bust it out!" shouted a voice from outside, loud and slurred. "C'mon!"

All of them jumped when the sound of breaking glass echoed through the room. Another window followed, and then a dozen heavy thumps as more rocks bounced off siding. "Oh my God," Mercedes whimpered as a third window broke at the far end of the house. "Daddy, they're everywhere."

"The police are coming," he said again, but Kurt caught a note of uncertainty in his voice. Yes, the police would arrive. His concern was for what state they'd be in when they did show up.

The next shouted words made Kurt's blood run cold, and tightened Mercedes' grip so much that she nearly broke his hand.

"Burn it out!"

No. _No._ They were there for him. He refused to let the people in that house suffer because those drunken Neanderthals outside couldn't bear not being able to see him in person. Before either Jones could stop him, Kurt jerked his hand out of Mercedes' and bolted for the front door. "Stop it!" he yelled when he flung the door open, expecting their attackers to be at the far end of the yard.

Some were. Karofsky and Azimio, however, were on the front porch. The smell of alcohol wafted off them and turned Kurt's stomach.

Kurt swallowed. "You got what you wanted. First-hand view. Now _go away._ The police are coming."

Dr. Jones reached for him, trying to pull him back inside. It was a smart move and a swift one. But he was only one man, and both Azimio and Karofsky outweighed him significantly.

Considering how drunk they were, they moved very quickly. Kurt didn't have time to pull away before their hands closed around his arms and pulled him through the front door. He struggled like his life depended on it, kicking and clawing and flailing. It was no good. They were stronger by far. The one thing he could have hoped for was that he'd be too awkward a victim to carry easily.

Someone as light as him, though, was clearly no trouble at all.

"Kurt!" he heard screamed behind him, but someone else on the football team was blocking the Jones' exit. The sound of fists meeting flesh rang out and Dr. Jones didn't say anything else. Another player had his truck waiting. Headlights cut thin paths into the looming night. It was dark and cold. Kurt couldn't make out any faces but the two directly over him.

"Let me go!" he shrieked, striking out ineffectively with his fists. Without intending to, one wing snapped out and struck at the head next to him with the full force of all its streamlined muscle. Karofsky let out a grunt of pain and dropped his grip on Kurt as he wobbled and swore. Azimio, taken by surprise, loosened his hold.

Not hesitating, Kurt launched himself at the sky.

Azimio's loose grip tightened around his ankle.

Kurt cried out in pain as he was slammed against the sidewalk. "Fuck, man," Karofsky groaned as he rubbed at his bruised head. He weaved where he stood. "This hurts."

"It fucking _flew!_ " Azimio laughed in disbelief. "We can't have it fly. Get away before the good stuff happens."

"The good stuff," Karofsky repeated over Kurt. Despite the alcohol that seemed to be driving the boy's actions, there was something deep and real when he said that. It terrified Kurt to his core. "Gotta keep it around, gotta... it's the whole point." He considered Kurt where he was pinned to the sidewalk under Azimio's hands, and then, in the overly-careful way of someone drunk, brought his booted heel down on one of Kurt's wings.

When that bone snapped, it sounded like someone's back breaking. Kurt screamed again. It was a thousand times worse than his collar. It wasn't on his body, it was on those hyper-sensitive wings that concentrated and amplified every touch.

"Good idea, man," Azimio laughed, and reached down. Kurt's other wing broke under his hands like a wishbone. Then he moved his hands down the curve. As he tugged at the broken bones, Kurt felt no pleasure, only agony.

Azimio's hands twisted again. Another snap. Karofsky brought down his boot. Another break. Over and over, until Kurt could barely scream any more. "Truck," Azimio said, apparently satisfied, and Karofsky scooped up Kurt to throw him in the pickup bed like a bag of garden mulch. He landed hard on his shattered wings.

"Dude," Azimio said when they'd set into motion. The other footballers had jumped into the back of the pickup when it began to leave, and so six of them were clustered around Kurt's limp form. Their hands shackled him to the cold metal bed. "Check it out."

Kurt trembled as pain wracked him. He didn't have the energy to wonder why that terrible night suddenly exploded into day.

"What is up with its eyes?" asked some unknown voice.

"The wings are moving again," someone else said with a frown to his tone.

 _No,_ Kurt wanted to tell his body. _Stop healing._ It would only lead to—

Karofsky put his full weight onto one knee where it rested on a wing, and a new part of that bone snapped. "Fuck, it's loud," he said, weaving with each motion of the car. "Still have that headache."

"No shit," Azimio groaned. "Here," he said and fumbled through his bag. An oversized, sweaty sports sock was soon crammed in Kurt's mouth, so totally that he could barely breathe. The elastic of a jock strap was then wound around Kurt's head to hold the impromptu gag in place. "Shut it up," Azimio said proudly and got an affectionate punch on the shoulder for his trouble.

Tears streamed down Kurt's face as the pickup jolted under him. Emotionally and physically broken, he began shaking where he rested on the metal bed. Shadowed bodies loomed over his body, blocking the stars with their silhouettes. The taste of Azimio's sweat gagged him. If he vomited, he would choke and die. Then he would wake up and their fun would continue. _Dad,_ he pleaded in a silent scream. His fingernails scratched uselessly against paint and steel.

When he heard the sound of a fly unzipping, Kurt screeched a muffled plea through his gag and began struggling with fresh purpose. Karofsky's knee came down again on a wing. A boy he didn't recognize leaned forward, and that close Kurt could make out the sight of his half-erect cock.

 _No._

Everything was too much. His overwhelmed body rebelled. Kurt vomited from the pain and fear, but it had no way out. On pure instinct he began to flail as air stopped at his blocked throat. Every motion sent his wounded wings in a fresh sweep across the metal. Broken bones ground together, and then again when the footballers held him in place with those injured wings. They laughed and marveled as he struggled.

Kurt's lungs screamed for oxygen as his voice remained silenced. His eyes, golden beacons as his body tried desperately to heal its internal damage, fell shut as he went too long without a breath.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was a half-dozen hands reaching for his body.

Kurt woke up just in time to be thrown over the tailgate of the pickup as it weaved down the road. He landed on the rough asphalt at what had to be seventy miles an hour, felt more bones break, and rolled until he stopped. His gag was still in place, as was the vomit clogging his throat, and he once again began to die.

Through his eyes, the highway was a river of gold. The night sky was blinding and brilliant. Through his ears, the siren rushing past his crumpled body sounded like a song.

As his starved lungs burned once more for air, Kurt's eyes closed.

The siren drove past him, he thought as he again slipped away from life. No one was going to help.

When he woke up the next time, his gag was off and a large, strong hand had fingers jammed down his throat. Kurt retched so hard it hurt, then felt muscle spasms finally clear his windpipe. Dazed and confused, he tried to pull back but whimpered when bones shifted against each other. Too many breaks. They hadn't healed. The hands laid him back against the freezing asphalt and he went limp.

"What'd you do?" asked one officer.

"I had to take the gag off, and then it wasn't breathing! Had to check for any blockage. Look, now it's better."

"I'm on the phone with central right now, and they keep telling us not to touch it! You wanna end up in jail?"

"Fine, fine. Now what do we do?"

"I dunno. They're checking the books. They've got laws for all this, you know."

Kurt felt the chill of the pavement bite his cheek. Sharp, small stones cut into his skin as he wept.

 _Dad._


	13. Chapter 13

Kurt wasn't healing.

At least, not at anything like he was used to. Agony swept him with each breath that moved his wings and the dozens of broken bones within them. The world around him was still impossibly light, all in a hundred shades of gold. His blood had kept him alive longer than he should have lasted, but he was fading.

The world seemed to slow. Even in the biting cold of a November night, Kurt felt warm as snow drifted upon him. He was in a pool of his own blood, he realized distantly. The heat came from that. There was so much blood that he felt it before it vanished. There must be too many injuries. His blood couldn't focus on this cut or that cut. It was trying to heal everything and so could heal nothing. Even magic had its limits.

"Christ, listen to it."

"Sounds like when we hit that stray dog over on Willow. Remember that?"

"When we had to get the okay to shoot it? Yeah. God, poor thing. Those noises it made while we waited for the thumbs-up."

He couldn't pinpoint any injury. His entire body hurt. Even though it might be a sign of an imminent third death that night, Kurt wished he could pass out.

 _Dad._

It was too much pain. He wanted to die. He wanted to stay dead.

 _Dad._

"Should we get a blanket or something? It's getting snowed on."

"Can't touch it, remember?"

"Damn. Those _noises._ Makes me want to call in and get the okay to shoot it, too. Seems like the kind thing to do."

"Wouldn't go around joking about that, unless you've got a bigger bank account than you've ever told—sir! Sir, you have to stay back, this is a crime scene. Sir, I am not kidding." The sound of a gun being drawn from a holster followed.

"He is my son!" Burt yelled, but there was the sound of scuffling and he didn't come any closer. "Look, he's my... he's _mine._ "

"Sir," one said seriously, "while you can do any sort of... role-playing you want inside your own house, it's not really appropriate to—"

"No, no, don't you watch the news? If this guy's the owner, it's really his kid. Damndest thing." He asked something into the phone, then paused. "Sir, we'll just need you to verify ownership."

"What?" Burt asked, openly crying.

"The controller—" Burt fumbled it out in a second and showed it to them both, and the officer nodded and said, "All right, just use it so we can see the tie to the collar."

 _"What?"_

"It's the law, sir. You lost control of your Angel and property rights have to be re-established." Burt began yelling that he wasn't going to hurt his son, but the police shouted back at him that he could either stand there and look at it or he could do what the law required and be let right by.

Burt apologized when he fired Kurt's collar for a few seconds, but there was no need. Kurt couldn't hurt any more. Only the blinking of his collar gave any indication that the two pieces of equipment were linked. That was enough, though, and Burt was allowed to barrel through the two men and their color commentary on Kurt's suffering.

Hands worked uselessly over Kurt as air wheezed through his throat. His blinks were slow, as was each breath. It was finally too much and Burt gave up his survey of Kurt's wounds to simply bend down and hold him close.

"Oh God," Burt wept as he held his son's battered body against his own. Kurt couldn't protest, even though the motion jostled every broken bone in his body. He was still gleaming in a dozen angry lines as wounds lingered. Parts of him glowed softly as blood collected under his skin. His eyes lit his face like two lonely candles in the night.

A wing twitched feebly. Tears felt like ice water when they fell. Snow collected on his legs.

"Dad," Kurt finally whispered when he could draw enough breath to do anything beyond exist. "Hurts."

"I know, baby," Burt choked out. "It'll get better. Just hold on. You stay with me, okay? You are going to heal up and be _fine._ " Despite how gentle he was trying to be, his hands still tightened painfully before he could help it. "You're going to heal up," he pleaded. "You really are. You're not going to die, okay? Stay with me. Stay right here. You just have to make it through and you'll get better."

He didn't know. He still thought dying was a hypothetical.

Three times, now. Three deaths. Each had been different. The sharp, sudden pain of a broken neck. The slow burn of suffocation; Kurt wondered how long he'd been unconscious before finally dying. His body would have been a helpless plaything as it shut down.

His eyes lost even their loose focus on the sight of the road in front of him.

The third death: suffocation paired with massive internal bleeding. It was pain. Pure pain that yet lingered. His wings hung loosely from him. He looked like a dead bird left by a cat. Kurt coughed and gold spilled from his lips. Shallow breaths rattled in his chest.

"Hold on," Burt pleaded. "Please just hold on." Reaching into his jacket as he laid Kurt flat once more, Burt pulled out a pocketknife and looked grimly at something before him. He couldn't see it from his angle, so Kurt let himself be manipulated toward whatever Burt was hoping to achieve. He felt one leg being jostled, then heard the soft sound of fabric tearing. Fresh pain burned with the motion. He gasped anew against the road.

"This'll hurt, son," Burt murmured as he put his hand on Kurt's leg. Forcing his head to tilt down just a bit, even though the asphalt cut at his cheek, Kurt saw the problem: the thick bone of one shin was broken cleanly in half. One jagged end of it stood well clear of his skin. Eventually his body would find a way to pull that bone back into place and heal, but until then blood poured out of that wound like a river.

Burt pressed hard on that exposed bone and forced it back inside Kurt's leg, hurting as badly as it had when his wings were first broken. It wasn't a perfect fit, but it didn't have to be: he could feel the gaping wound in that leg finally start to knit closed. Soon his blood would stay in his body. Soon it would start to heal him.

He'd been abducted. Tortured. Beaten. Possibly raped. And he'd died. Twice.

His body was too painful to care about those things. He was an animal wounded in a corner, unable to push past instincts to think about anything but sheer physical trauma. Soft, wet whimpers tore out of him. At the sound Burt stepped away, tried to regain control, and only returned after he'd doubled over a snowy ditch. "Okay," he said when he'd lost his dinner and retaken his seat next to Kurt. "Your leg's closing up, hear that? That means you're _healing_ ," he said in a voice that was probably meant to be encouraging but sounded utterly broken. "It means you just need to hold on."

He thought he was talking about clinging to life. Kurt was trying to hold on, but to simple awareness.

He didn't want to be in that town. He couldn't be in that town, not any more.

His body was trapped. His mind wanted to leave.

Still-glowing eyes unfocused just a little more.

The warmth below him faded. For a moment Kurt wondered if he was dying again. It had felt very cold as he died. No, he processed distantly. His blood had vanished and no more was freed to replace it, so he was only feeling the icy asphalt below him. His body was getting better, not worse. Cuts must be closing up, from the sound of his father's encouraging words.

He could hear more sirens rushing by and the snap of cameras photographing him from every angle. Officers marveled at how he healed, asking each other if they knew that happened. And he heard... Kurt's eyes fell closed as he processed the soft sound above him. Like he hadn't since Kurt was very little, Burt was singing a quiet lullaby.

The slow, gentle pace of the song became the rhythm of Kurt's breathing. His lungs began to fill rather than rattling shallowly and giving up. He didn't know how long they stayed like that, his father singing different lullabies as Kurt healed, but the music helped him ignore the spectacle they were outside of their tiny bubble.

"Can I move you?" Burt finally asked. He peeled off his glove and rested his hand on Kurt's cheek. It felt blazingly hot, like his father was in the grip of a fever, but Kurt tiredly realized that no, he was probably freezing to death. So to speak.

"Careful," was all Kurt managed to answer. He wanted nothing more than to be away from that spot and all those eyes staring at him, but his body still ached. He at least felt sure that no bones would tear through skin or puncture his lungs if he were moved, though, and that was enough.

Burt, adjusting his hold on Kurt, stood up. He expected it to require more effort than it did; the shock on his face was apparent. For a few breaths he only looked at Kurt, clearly fearful that something else had gone wrong to make him as light as he'd been before his mother's funeral.

Shaking his head tiredly, Kurt made soft sounds to urge him toward the car. He'd been hollowing out. He'd died.

So much to catch up on.

"We're going home," Burt said as he gently placed him flat on the rear bench seat and then tried to strap in Kurt as best he could. "Okay? We're going home and you'll be safe. Kurt, you want to go home, right?"

He could barely croak out his words. "I'm so tired, Dad."

Lower lip wobbling as he tried not to cry, Burt nodded once and got behind the wheel. The people at the scene, the police officers and journalists and paramedics driving onward to some unknown location, stopped their work to watch them go.

Burt didn't say anything on the drive. He was probably focusing on the snow, Kurt thought, his eyelids closing. It felt as if they met then he might sleep forever. It was snowing hard. He'd known it would be a bad winter.

More police officers waited for them at their home. Kurt saw why: the front door hung at a crazy angle off its hinges. Someone had broken in. Someone large and careless, like a linebacker thinking more with Jägermeister than his brain. They'd checked there before coming to Mercedes'.

"Sir, you can't stay here tonight," one of the officers said as they looked up from taping off the scene.

"Get away from my house," Burt said levelly as he got out of the car.

"Sir—"

"My son needs to sleep. In his house. And he's going to." When they said again that he would need to stay in a hotel that night, his temper flared abruptly. "Like hell you're kicking us out of here!" Burt raged. "My boy was just... he needs his _home_ , not a tiny hotel room with strangers on every side! I'm not forcing him to be around anyone. Ever." His voice caught, wavered, and then broke. "We're moving. We're... God, why did we wait?" he asked the night sky. "Why? Why did I...?"

"Sir, you should leave," an office said more pointedly.

Burt ignored him and swung open the door next to Kurt. The protests went silent as he carefully collected his son in his arms and the police swarming their yard realized they were seeing something in person that most of the world never would. "You can check for evidence all you want," he said. His arms were warm and sure. "Outside."

Like some magical talisman, Kurt's form seemed to drain their protests and they nodded mutely. After all, the world worked in service of those people with controllers. Burt began to walk past them and the officers stepped respectfully clear, but he stopped to rattle off a phone number. "Call it. Ask for Jim. Tell him he needs to call up his friend Rick, get him to run by his shop, and get a door from inventory. Standard size. Bring it by and put it up."

Though they were allowed to pass because of the wings that brushed the snow, more officers waited inside. "Sir, we just need to ask you a few things."

"Leave us alone," Burt pleaded.

"Sir, this will only take a second." He pulled a pen free of his clipboard. "The Jones family is currently at the hospital."

"What?" Kurt asked when the words finally penetrated his mental fog. His head inched away from Burt's shoulder. The officer didn't acknowledge him, though, and he had to whisper for his father to ask if they were all right.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," came the perfunctory answer when Burt asked. "The girl's fine. A little battered. Her dad's getting some stitches. X-rays. Sir, do you wish to press charges?"

"I... against who?" Burt asked, clearly exhausted and wishing they'd see the backs of those cop cars.

"You lent your Angel to an outside party and they did not maintain secure control," he said, sounding almost annoyed. "Do you wish to press charges against the Jones family?"

"What?" Burt said in disbelief. "No."

"All right," the officer said, taking down some notes. "Did you authorize any sexual contact? Do you suspect that the Jones family might have engaged in some regardless?"

Burt's hands tightened around Kurt. Pain from not-yet healed bones echoed through Kurt's body and it was difficult not to whimper. "They didn't touch me," he promised his father. "Of course they didn't. We watched a movie, they didn't touch me—"

"He's telling you what you need to hear," Burt protested, but the officer ignored that. "Why aren't you listening to him?"

The officer looked at his partner like he didn’t know how to respond. When he finally replied, it sounded like he was worried that Burt was a madman who might strike out at any moment. "Nothing an Angel says is evidence, sir." Burt began to repeat the words, sputtering, and he explained, "You only listen to testimony from people."

He wasn't a person. He was a thing. Kurt moaned soft and low against Burt's jacket as another tiny thread of control frayed and snapped.

"Get out of our house," Burt said. That time, he sounded ready to force the matter.

"Sir," the officer said in placation, "we suspect sexual motives from the thieves. We'll just need to have you bring in your Angel for a physical examination for any DNA remnants. Now that you've said the Jones weren't authorized we'd check any findings against them as well—"

Burt's fist slammed against the doorframe. Had it landed on the wall nearby, he would have gone through the plaster. "This is not a request. Get out of my house."

"Sir, of course I won't stay on your property unauthorized, but any evidence needs to be gathered sooner rather than later."

"You think I'm going to force him to be examined by some doctor?" Burt demanded. Kurt cringed at the thought of it, and his hair was instantly stroked. "No. No. He's going to sleep and you're leaving. No."

"But sir—"

"I was behind the cops the whole time!" Burt countered, voice pitching closer to a yell with each word. "The second they saw the lights, it was a car chase. Nothing _sexual_ happened."

Flashing back to the start of what would have been his rape, Kurt shuddered and hoped he was right. They were in a pickup. It was swerving. His captors had their hands busy holding him down. If the police had come right after that, drawing their attention....

He couldn't put himself through an _exam_ just to know for sure. He couldn't. The doctor would treat him like a car at the garage.

"Dad," he whispered. "Please make them go away."

"You heard him," Burt said. When the police didn't immediately move he snarled, "You heard him! Get the hell out of our house!"

"Do you want to press charges for the theft?" the officers asked as they moved toward the front door. From the looks they were exchanging they clearly found Burt difficult and bewildering. But he had a controller, and so they had to take treatment from him that would earn anyone else in that town some very strong words.

Clearly wanting nothing more than for them to leave, Burt yelled, "Later! Go!" Thankfully they did, and only the officers working quietly outside remained.

"I got a call," Burt said as he stroked the hair away from Kurt's forehead. "ADT. Second quarter, they called to tell me someone'd broken into the house. And then I...." His voice wavered. He bit at his lip. "Heard a bunch of sirens. I knew. I just knew. Didn't even tell Carole what was going on, I just ran out of there and threw myself behind the wheel. Was chasing them down until a car stopped and I saw... in the road...."

His hand tightened around Kurt's wrist. Tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry. God, I can say that a million times. Won't make up for it. We're moving, okay? We'll... we'll make it work. I will make it work."

The sound of rocks breaking glass rang through Kurt's head. Anywhere he went, he'd be a target. It was just a matter of people noticing he was there. Quinn's plans had sped things up. But it would be the same end anywhere. He was just a thing. He had no agency, no rights. No purpose but abuse. He couldn't even tell an officer what had happened to him.

Putting him on the couch as he kept glancing toward the still-open door, Burt gently cupped his son's face in his hands. "Your eyes," he said in a shaking voice. "They're dy... fading." A literal spark in his eyes, and it was ebbing. No wonder he looked scared.

"Healing," Kurt mumbled as he saw colors beyond gold begin to return to his vision. "Inside. Almost done." Bones were still painful when jostled, and he suspected he would be tender for some time to come. It was so much damage and he'd lost so much blood.

Relief washed over the man and he asked, "You're all healed up? You're okay?"

Kurt didn't say anything for a long time. That wasn't his intention, but every time he tried to answer he began to realize the enormity of what had happened. The world began to intrude on him no matter how hard he tried to fight it off. Curling in on himself, he cried with a pain deeper than the physical anguish of his shattered bones, "No."

He felt himself being picked up. When Burt settled into an oversized armchair it should have been harder for Kurt to curl against him than it was. Even if he hardly weighed more than the last time he'd sat like that, he was far larger. Wings hung behind him, reaching the floor. Somehow, though, he managed to feel like he was hiding in the shadow of his father's form like he had as a child.

"Burt?" he finally heard in a quiet voice. "There are cops outside...?"

Not looking away from where his thumb was tracing gentle patterns on Kurt's cheek, Burt murmured, "Did you get the door?"

"Yeah," said Jim in obvious confusion. "Is everything okay?"

"No. Can you put it up?"

There was a short pause. Clearly, the worst thing in the world would be for Burt to move away from the comfort he was offering. Trying to explain that night would be scarcely better. "Of course," said the man, and the sound of his footsteps followed. Kurt's fragmented mind skipped back to the first time he'd tried helping at the garage. The employees all marveled and laughed and praised him. That seemed so very long ago.

Coming home from school with a skinned knee, and soon forgetting that anything bad had happened when he threw a party with his stuffed animals.

Standing in front of television cameras as he won a national title.

Singing into a hairbrush as he decided that Sasha Fierce was Beyoncé's best idea ever.

Wondering how they were ever supposed to have Christmas without his mother. Cooking his first Thanksgiving dinner.

Seeing the pride in his father's eyes when he heard his first rebuilt engine turn over. Being handed the keys to his first car.

Signing his name to a sheet for a club that might not live past its first week.

Choking to death on his own vomit. Doing it again. Hitting the asphalt and rolling as his bones shattered. Landing hard on broken wings. Being pushed toward a rape exam because his voice meant nothing and his body was the only value he had.

His memories came to a screeching halt, and Kurt wondered how he could possibly remember anything past that night. His life stopped there.

Shoulders twitched inward and his teeth rattled against each other. His shivers were small and gentle at first, and Burt rubbed his arm and quietly promised that he was inside and out of the snow. But soon Kurt's teeth chattered loud enough for him to hear. Tremors ran down his arms and his hands shook. His body had long warmed up, but he kept shivering so hard that it felt like he was seizing from his collar. Feathers trembled against the floor. Some, loosened by abuse and stress, drifted free.

"Okay," Burt said desperately, clutching him close as Kurt shook. "I've got you. You're safe. Just let it out, I've got you."

The shaking grew, not ebbed. Kurt's body was out of his control, just as it was when his blood turned gold and wings grew. Just as it was when he changed day by day. He buried his face in the curve of his father's shoulder and let out one long, mournful cry. Barely able to form words through his tears, Kurt finally whispered, "Why is this my life?"

"We'll move," Burt promised desperately. "We'll move to a place like you want."

Why? So he could walk outside? He'd just be an easier target. Eventually someone would want to hurt him again. That was the entire cycle of his life: moments between people hurting him. He died, he woke up, and he died again.

"We'll find that place you need," Burt murmured as Kurt's exhaustion overtook him and he lay there as limp and unprotesting as he'd been on the road. "Okay?"

Kurt didn't answer. He didn't know how long he lay there like that, feeling the steady rhythm of his father's breathing with the low undercurrent of his heartbeat. He didn't want to be in Lima, but he didn't want to be anywhere.

"What happened?" he eventually heard. It wasn't Jim. The sounds of hanging the new door had long faded. Nor was it an officer, although their noises were still out in front of the house. Carole was there. From the heavy footsteps following, she'd brought Finn. "Burt, what _happened?_ You ran off, there are police outside, we... we have a new front door...."

"Feathers," Finn mumbled, coming close and kneeling down. He started gathering up all the feathers lost to pain and fear and kept saying, "He doesn't lose this many. This is way too many. Something bad happened."

Burt opened his mouth, closed it, and fumbled for the remote. Speech clearly failed him and they were big enough to be on the news.

Finn and Carole stared in horror as the local anchor recited everything that had happened. The kidnapping... no. Grand theft. Destruction of property.

The car chase, and the fugitives' attempt to get the police off their tail by dumping the object of interest.

The drunken driver losing control of the truck and rolling into a ditch. The boys in the open back flying free. Two deaths. Three in critical condition. Two serious.

The reclamation of the Angel by its owner, and its unknown current state. The sight of it crumpled on the road, glowing as snow covered its wounded form.

Kurt shook anew where he was curled against Burt. They were tiny tremors, all that he had the energy to make. The world around him seemed like a movie, as if he and Mercedes had simply kept watching a DVD. The night couldn't be real. His abduction wasn't on television for everyone to see. His abuse was performed by some stuntman and his injuries were special effects.

He could feel himself detach from the world with fresh line of narration from the news. It couldn't be real. He couldn't be in that town. He couldn't have died. He couldn't have felt so much pain. It couldn't have happened. His eyes went soft and unfocused again as his hands clutched uselessly at the flannel of Burt's shirt.

"The news is at extremes for our local high school," the anchor continued in a grotesque shift, her voice swinging up half an octave in pitch as it was time to change topics of discussion. "While some students were involved in that developing tragedy, the football team is headed to state."

Finn's triumphant picture appeared. The rest of the team flanked him as they began to lift him on their shoulders. A minute earlier a grainy shot had filled that quarter of the screen. It showed a glowing pool of gold on a snowy highway, and the broken figure collapsed within it.

In the living room, the real Finn looked ready to throw up.

"Well," the anchor said to her co-worker in the compartmentalized way of the local news. "It's going to be a terrible day at McKinley tomorrow. We can expect to hear about memorial services soon, as well as the trial for those in the hospital who do wake up. But at least some boys made good memories tonight."

  


* * *

"I was throwing passes," Finn said a little while later when Kurt had been carried down the hall. "I was thinking about a football like it was the most important thing in the world. And they were... they were throwing _him._ "

Kurt tried not to listen. He didn't want to be reminded of that journey over the tailgate. It was all too easy to lose himself in memories of the night. He didn't need any help.

"You didn't know," Carole said quietly. "Go down and get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

Finn still protested. Once again, Kurt was slumped on his father's bed. He'd slept there after trying to slice off his wings and again when he'd come home. He should have known better than to think the joy of the second time was anything but an accident. Any happiness in his life could only be that. Years earlier he'd crawled into that bed as a child to ward off nightmares. He doubted it would help that night.

Carole wasn't trying to force herself in, although the image of being cradled between them like some frightened toddler was appealing. Kurt just took up too much room. He had to angle his back off one edge of the mattress lest he risk accidental contact. Instead, Carole was spreading out a sleeping bag on the floor. Anyone trying to enter the room would be blocked; at the moment, that included Finn.

He looked between the two parents and the son they were trying to shield, then back toward the hall, and seemed to struggle for something to say.

"Go on, sweetie," Carole said. She sounded very tired. "Go to bed."

"I could get another bag," Finn began uncertainly.

"Please, Finn," Carole said. Her voice began to fray. "Just go to your room."

"But—"

She sounded ready to cry. " _Please_ just go to bed, Finn."

Cowed like a beaten dog, he slunk away from the door and vanished from view. Kurt's eyes, barely slit open, closed again as he felt a blanket placed over him. He was so exhausted that sleep should have come easily, but every time he let go of his iron grip on his thoughts he was dying again. Feeling his wings crack. Vomiting at the sight of his imminent rape.

The next morning it felt as if he hadn't slept at all. Maybe he had, maybe not. Any sleep would have been for moments. He could vaguely remember comforting words and soft touches on his shoulders. They were probably real. He doubted he would have dreamed something pleasant.

Craning his neck around, Kurt took in the sight of the empty room. It took him a few seconds to place where his parents had gone. They were talking in the en suite bathroom, and although water ran they were easily audible over it. Either they thought Kurt was asleep or didn't care if he heard. "Carole, look," Burt said. "I know the plan was to wait until Finn graduated, but...."

"I know."

"You could stay. It's not what we'd want: getting married and then moving apart. But it'd only be a year and a half. Finn could still have everything he wants to do. And us, well... from the sound of it, a year and a half won't be that long, right? Not against everything."

"Right. Right, that makes sense. I just... I hate to bring this up. After last night it shouldn't be something we worry about, but it's there. Burt, how will we pay for this? Buying a new house on lots of land and keeping the mortgage on this one... starting up a new garage when it might take you months to find a buyer here...."

"I know. And I... don't know. But we'll make it work somehow. We've got to. We'll have the money from your old place in a week or two. We'll stretch that out." His voice was gravelly when he continued, "We _have_ to find a way. You didn't... you just saw the news. You weren't there. God. I was holding it together for a while, and then I let myself replace all that gold with red and...." His voice broke. "They hurt him so bad."

Carole didn't say anything. Maybe she was brushing her hair or burying her tears in Burt's shoulder. "I just can't believe what happened," she finally whimpered. "Who would do this?"

Anyone, Kurt thought. That was the problem. A kind owner still raped him. Bullies only needed a motivational speech and a trip to the liquor store to kill him. If only alcohol could solve a problem for him; he wanted to rest.

"Hey," Burt said softly when they'd finished their conversation in the bathroom. Kneeling down, he brushed away Kurt's messy hair. "Can I get you something?"

"Vodka." He saw the startled look on his father's face and tiredly continued, "Never mind. I know it wouldn't work. I just want to sleep."

The realization visibly hit that Kurt wanted sleep no matter how it came. "You could try some Nyquil?" Burt offered hesitantly. "Hey, Carole? Would you bring in the bottle?" But as soon as it was opened near him, Kurt recoiled. The same biting-sharp scent of the alcohol he'd downed before trying to cut off his wings was there, and so he knew it was useless. Eventually exhaustion would be enough.

"We'll leave you alone to try to sleep," Burt finally ventured when they'd taken the Nyquil away. "Or do you want one of us in here?"

"Close the curtains," Kurt said. "Then just... quiet."

They took that as a request for absolute silence, and so said they would close the door and leave him alone. He could just pick up the phone and hit a button when he wanted someone to come back, Burt said as he hastily reprogrammed one to call his cell. If he wanted to take a shower then he could use the bathroom right there. And food, they'd bring in whatever he wanted....

"Tea with honey," Kurt said and Carole nearly ran to get it.

Finn was hovering in the hallway and looked ready to burst through the narrow slit of the open door. "Hey. Hey, how is he?"

"We're leaving him alone," Burt said, stroking Kurt's hair one last time and then moving to the door to block Finn's entry.

"But," Finn began uselessly. He bit at his lip and shifted his weight back and forth like he might try to dart past Burt no matter what the man said.

As Kurt watched Finn's anxious face over his father's shoulders, he had a sudden flashback to walking into the front hallway and letting Carole and Finn see him for the first time since his return. They'd been so happy. Now, Finn clearly wanted to be the one to kneel down and talk him through all of his trauma. He'd been given that role in those early days, after all. He probably thought he still had it.

Refocusing on the door, Kurt heard that Finn's arguments hadn't grown any more eloquent. It was all stammered words and desperate looks. Like the neighbor's dog, his entire being was intent on getting closer.

"Finn, please go tell your friends that he's here and all right, but they shouldn't bother him," Carole said as she returned with a teacup.

"But I—"

"He can't be bothered," Carole said, quiet but intent, and with one last anguished look Finn tore himself away. She busied herself with arranging pillows against the headboard so he could sit up, and then helped him roll up onto them without coming near his wings. It hurt, but Kurt fought back even the thin noises of pain that threatened to spill free.

"Thanks," he said when the warm teacup was in his hands. Burt and Carole shot each other hopeful looks at the word; surely even the most basic courtesy was a good sign.

"We'll leave you alone to sleep, then," Carole said. Burt kissed him on the forehead, reminded him he was just a button away, and then they both vanished behind the closing door.

Though it scalded his tongue, Kurt downed the water that only had the faintest taste of tea. He could smell peppermint; it was one of the bags Artie brought. No mind. He hadn't really wanted tea. All he'd cared about was the spoonful of honey stirred into the water. It would be enough to sustain him through the day.

He was so tired that even his eyes hurt, and yet he couldn't sleep. Kurt slumped against the pillows, raised the remote, and turned the volume so far down that no one could possibly hear through the closed door. There was a special report on the tragedy in Lima. Three boys had lost their lives: two at the scene, and then one who hadn't made it through the night. Three of McKinley's finest, strong and athletic with bright futures ahead of them, had made one night's mistake and paid for it with their lives. The owner could choose to press charges against the boys and their families, even those who had perished. "But," the anchor gravely intoned, "it remains to be seen whether he will agree that these families have already suffered far too much."

Kurt could save the rest of them. He could walk into that hospital, slit his wrist, and hold it over their open mouths.

He wouldn't. It was outside any realm of possibility. But still, the fact remained that he could save them. He wondered if that would be his realization every time he saw some awful story on the news: he _could_ be helping people and he wasn't. Even though no one helped him. His blood saved people. No one saved him.

Now the journalists onscreen sadly agreed that Lima simply wasn't prepared to have its own Angel. Those boys had been overwhelmed with utterly tragic results.

Kurt's memories skipped ahead of seeing Carole and Finn in the front hallway. Now he remembered testing Puck to see if people weren't responsible for their reactions to him. That's what the news said, after all. Those apples of their parents' eyes had been tempted. He was just too much for them.

At the top of the hour the Sunday news roundup concluded. The near-eulogies for his kidnappers and murderers were replaced with syndicated reruns of Deal or No Deal. It was breathtakingly banal and pointless. Kurt thought about changing the channel but didn't bother; nothing on any other channel would hold his interest more.

Blinking hard, he realized he was waking up. Very intense people were telling taxi drivers that they were in a race for a million dollars. It sounded like the most important thing in the world that they follow the clue in their hands. Annoyed, Kurt tugged his blanket back over his shoulders. He'd thought so many goals were the most important thing in the world, back before... everything. Now, caring about anything but globally-sanctioned rape, slavery, and torture seemed so frivolous that it was offensive. But caring about that suffering was pointless, because it was so overwhelming. It was easiest not to feel anything.

So, when it changed to the nightly local news, Kurt didn't feel anything when they showed footage of their house. A journalist standing in the falling snow told everyone that the owner lived there and apparently had yet to decide whether or not he would file charges. Next the shot jumped to another reporter on scene at St. Rita's. They were holding steady at three deaths. Because they were minors, no names were being released. Kurt wondered who had died, but he couldn't really _care._

Burt was busy trying to relocate his family across the country. 'Safety' trumped 'revenge' for the moment. Eventually he'd think about pressing charges. That should be quite a sight.

With one quick thought for showering, as he could still feel the grit of the road on him, Kurt let that fall out of his mind. He changed the channels until he landed on AMC running a Back to the Future marathon and zoned out in the familiar comfort of George being her density.

He managed to sleep again, apparently, for the room was dark the next time he stirred and someone was checking on him. Funny; he'd apparently slept the better part of the day and yet he still felt exhausted. "Hey," Burt said quietly, brushing his hair off his forehead in what was starting to seem like a nervous tic. "How're you doing? Hungry? Thirsty?" When Kurt shook his head, Burt considered for a moment and then whispered, "Kurt? It stopped snowing. And it's the middle of the night. No one's around."

"So?" Kurt mumbled.

"Do you want to... you were so happy before, flying. I know you really want to be able to do it during the day, and soon you can, but maybe doing it now would still help a little?" He sounded so hopeful.

"Cameras," Kurt said and closed his eyes. Those journalists had been on the sidewalk just outside, right?

"No, no. They're gone." He clearly wanted Kurt to do this, and so without any real drive of his own Kurt stood and let himself be angled toward the hall. "And you know, people have to stay off our property," Burt said as he began to lead him toward the back porch. "That doesn't do much good here, but... hey, think about when we've got a big piece of land, right? Long private driveway leading up to the place, trees between the house and the road... no one'll ever see you when you don't want them to."

Unless they came up to the house in a drunken fugue and started throwing rocks through the window. But whatever made his father happy.

Eventually he'd heal every last cell of his body, but it was taking far longer than ever before. Maybe it was being bled nearly dry or maybe it was his broken spirit, but Kurt could feel tenderness here and there. Even with his light steps he was careful placing his feet. The bone that had erupted from his shin still hurt and so he favored that foot going down the hallway.

"You're limping," Burt fretted.

"Give me another day," Kurt said. It was still marvelously fast healing for the world as a whole; someone else would have been facing surgery and steel plates. But for a boy whose wounds had closed while his father watched, it was clearly a sign that something wasn't right. Cold air blew on him when Burt slid open the back door and Kurt's feet locked up entirely.

Flat on the road. Asphalt cutting his cheek. Lying in a pool of his blood.

"Kurt?" Burt said, still hopeful, and Kurt forced himself to step onto the slats of the deck after he slid on a pair of shoes.

"I don't know if there'll be this much out there," Burt said as he lead them off the porch and onto the snow-covered grass. "You'd think it'd be a lot of snow up that high, but it's drier out there. So who knows?" His rambling, nervous words died when Kurt only stood in the yard and didn't even look up at the sky. "Go on," he encouraged him. "Not too high, so I can see you. But go on."

Kurt could hear more footsteps behind him. Two pairs; Carole and Finn had both heard their exit and come to watch. He glanced over his shoulder just far enough to see Carole clutching Finn's hand. They were silhouetted against even the low lights of the house and their stance was tense with anticipation.

He couldn't be what he hoped, so he was supposed to do what others wanted. Kurt finally looked up. The moon and stars were hidden behind a thick curtain of clouds. He'd fly into nothing. Tensing and making sure to step off the ground only with his good leg, Kurt launched himself.

Agony shot through his wings with the strain of lifting away from earth. Wind whistled through the holes where feathers had been ripped free. Soon it was too much to feel the still-there fault lines of where he'd been brutalized, and with a cry he gave up the fight and plummeted.

He'd hardly lifted off the ground at all, Kurt realized as he stared up at the empty sky. The snow was enough to soften his fall. He'd only jostled his wounds, not made more. That moment of awareness stretched for hours before he snapped back into normal time. Panicked shouts approached him and Kurt let himself be picked up from his snowy cushion.

"Are you okay?" Burt asked desperately as he checked him over.

He felt battered but it was fading. "Yeah." Kurt's eyes slid nearly closed. With the absent stars, it didn't seem to matter whether he looked at the sky or not. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

Burt didn't say anything at first, and when he finally did he sounded wracked with guilt. "Of course. You don't have to do this. I was just... I was trying to help." When he passed Carole and Finn with Kurt in his arms, he desperately repeated that he was just trying to help.

Carole didn't say anything, just nodded and made soft sounds as she stroked his arm and Kurt's hair. Finn didn't even do that. He only stared at Kurt with complete focus. Then his shoulders squared. His jaw set.

He was probably going to do something stupid again, Kurt thought as he began to fall asleep during the journey back to the bed. That was all the energy he had to spend and he fell quickly asleep when his head was against the pillow. Maybe Burt's idea had helped; Kurt's dreams for the rest of the night were an infinite loop of falling to his death. That, after all, had been a far happier death than what he'd felt that week.

  


* * *

"You _can't_ make me go to school today!" Finn nearly yelled the next morning. Kurt had forced himself out of bed and into the shower after Finn's loud voice had awoken him. It was the first day of school after That Tragic End for part of the football team. He suspected things would become even more awful once Jacob started interviewing the student body, and it would become harder by the moment to make himself attend to personal grooming.

"You talk about what a leader you are for that team," Burt replied. Though tension ran through his voice, it didn't seem to be directed at Finn and he kept it under control. "They're going to need you around. This is going to be a hard day."

"Screw the team!" Finn shot back. "That _doesn't matter._ I need to be _here._ " Because he was the one who knew how deeply Kurt could be triggered by even an oblique sexual mention, let alone an imminent rape. He was the one who'd ask if Kurt had died and not think it sounded like an absurd question. He was the one who touched those wings and drove out every bad feeling. The frustration over all those months being dismissed, even unwittingly so, was obvious.

"Finn, it's great that you want to help. But we're the parents. It's our job. Some day when you're looking back on all this, you'll be happy you were there for your team when they needed you." It was clearly getting harder to maintain his soothing tone, so Burt finished with a short, "You're the quarterback. That's who you are. Just... be a really good one today."

"But—"

"Kid, please stop arguing. I'm trying to hold it together here, but you're making it real hard."

"Finn," Carole added, apparently joining them in the hallway. "Come here." There was a silent pause, maybe for a hug. "I know you just want to help. But you really need to focus on what _you_ can do." Over his protests that he was _trying_ to help like he should, Carole said that he should go talk to all their friends and reinforce the idea that no one should bother Kurt. And he could talk to Mercedes, and make sure she was okay.

"Fine," Finn said, resigned, and slunk away.

"Sorry," Burt said after a long moment of silence. "Guess I've got my limits for how much I can handle at a time, and, well...."

"And this has been a lot to handle. Too much. I know. I'll... look, Burt. I'll pay more attention to Finn. He's just scared. I'll keep him from bothering Kurt and I'll cheer him up."

Kurt smiled a little at that, though it was without any humor. Good. What Mercedes had told him was confusing, but the night to follow had done a fine job of crystallizing the true meaning of what she'd said about Finn. Santana using Kurt as masturbation fodder, Puck happily agreeing to sleep with him, Mike never shutting up... it all meant one thing. He'd just been stupid enough to go along with it in exchange for a few moments of unfettered happiness. No more.

Hours later he tensed when the doorbell rang. Journalists were probably pushing for a real story, and if they wouldn't give it to them from a distance then they'd take it by force. Kurt swaddled himself with his blanket as best he could, like that would make him invisible, but was very surprised to hear his name called soon after. "They're gone," Burt added, and with a sigh he ventured out of the room.

"It was a courier," Burt explained when Kurt was clearly confused as to what had happened. He gestured to a thick manila envelope in one hand. "I was on the phone with the ACLU most of yesterday, and, well... it's time to move ahead on some things. They're getting the documents pulled up."

"What is it?" Kurt asked. Were they facing the courtroom? Sentencing was mandatory for what those boys had done, assuming Burt pressed charges, and any trial would simply be rubberstamping their punishment. Still, there might be some papers to sign.

Three packets were pulled out in turn. "Just some advice," Burt said for the first. "Recommendations on, you know... everything. Sounds like a whole team came together and debated us all weekend." That would be terrifying if not for how all those high-flying lawyers were on their side. "And this, well... one of their lawyers knew a firm that specializes in this sort of thing. Seems like a good idea, so they sent over some preliminary stuff." He laid that stack on the table. "Employee purchase of the garage. They'd buy it themselves. Didn't know you could do that, split it up among a bunch of people, but they say it's doable."

"Oh." It was hard to feel too much of anything, but that seemed like some minor positive. The garage would stay with local owners, assuming they went for this, and the very people who had helped build it. That would be nice. It wouldn't have some chain's sign hung over their name. Maybe they'd even leave the name as-is, as a little nod of affection.

"And the third...." Burt pulled it out and spread it before him. It was a small stack of papers that looked like standard boilerplate. Them including it in the courier delivery was probably a courtesy; it had the feeling of something that could be downloaded online. It was a name change form.

"Oh," Kurt said quietly. In theory, it all made sense. He knew it did. They'd gone through this. They would look like a family since his birth, no one would think twice about Carole losing years, and it would be just that much harder to idly look up information about him. It made perfect sense.

Names, though. Names were important. He hadn't been wrong to choose his humanity over his name, back during his slavery, but it still gutted him. He wondered if it were really better to leave the current sign up on the garage, or if would simply be absurd when that person no longer existed.

"Dad?" he finally asked. "Are you okay with this?"

"Not something I ever expected to do," Burt admitted. "But it makes sense. And anything that might help you right now... yeah. I'll do it." He smiled sadly, though he probably meant for it to be hopeful. "Remember, you'll get your name back. Right? One day all those records will be back up with you in them. _You_ , just like you are now."

He couldn't even count on his own friends to be there for him. One even led the charge toward his death. His faith that things would change was only a tiny fragment of what it had once been. Why would they? Only a tiny group cared, no one else did, and eventually that tiny group would move on with their lives while he was an ageless footnote they'd once known. Quinn was probably right. This time next year, they'd redirect their idealism elsewhere.

As the slow burn of exhaustion began to settle in again, Kurt wondered what was happening at school that day. He'd see Jacob's videos later. He'd read the local news later.

"So," Carole said a few minutes later when she walked in and looked at where Burt was staring. The name change forms were still spread before him. He'd signed here and there but stopped before the end. "You're doing it? So early?"

"Was the plan to do it before we moved," Burt shrugged. "That just got bumped up."

"I won't be there," Carole pointed out. "They wouldn't hear different names."

"Not yet," Burt said quietly. "But I'll settle in there. Get to know people. Introduce myself. I thought this'd be harder," Burt added as his pen hovered above the last line awaiting his signature.

"They've been so helpful," Carole agreed.

"No. I mean, I thought it'd be harder for me." Burt's head bowed as he spoke. His whole body looked ready to crumple in on itself. "But... maybe this name'll be a shield, you know? Anything to keep him safe. Anything to _try_ to...." His voice caught on the words and failed him. Carole rubbed Burt's back as he fought back a choked sob. He was still struggling with holding back those sounds as he signed the paper one final time and became Burt Hudson. Soon the papers would be filed, a tiny notice would be published in the smallest paper that counted, and it would all be official.

From his spot on the couch, Kurt watched that quietly and began rehearsing his new identity. It wasn't like he'd introduce himself to many people. Still, for those rare occasions in some new town, the charade had begun. Kurt Hudson. A name to explain why his family looked like it did. A name to hold off the most thoughtless and brutal of people who might find and hurt him. It was only the slightest bit of protection.

Kurt still felt as if he were watching the world play out around him, rather than being part of it.

He'd take what protection he could get.

Kurt Hudson.

The theory was that one day it would be safe to be him again. Maybe. He wondered how long Kurt Hummel would be wrapped in a box for safekeeping. That was how he felt then, like he was wrapped in cotton wool. Everything was soft and fuzzy.

By the end of the afternoon he could have probably seen more videos on Jacob's blog, but Kurt didn't want to face that. Nor did he want to face the news. "They're out front again," Carole said grimly, and when Burt went to go look Kurt made the decision to return to his bedroom. He couldn't stay on that bed forever and they deserved the chance to sleep in each other's arms before they separated on his account.

Instead, he curled up on his own bed and felt scarcely better for it. More time ticked by like that. His laptop taunted him but it was easy to ignore. At least for now. Eventually he heard footsteps overhead interspersed with conversation; Finn was home. He must have finished his quarterbacking for the day. Too late Kurt realized the drawback of moving to his own bed, but he didn't have time to move before Finn thudded heavily down the stairs with intense enthusiasm. He was finally being allowed the chance to help.

"Hey. You awake?" Finn frowned when Kurt didn't say anything. "Are you sure you're not sick or something?" he mused. Then, to Kurt's surprise, he walked closer and rested his hand lightly on one wing. Low-burning comfort and pleasure shot through Kurt's mind and he just barely held back a moan. It was like the alcohol he'd wanted but could never have.

Very gently, like handling fine china, Finn began to trace his fingertips along the arch. He squeezed occasionally and it became harder each time to ignore the surges of pleasure. One moan finally slipped free. Kurt cursed himself and tried to pretend like he'd been asleep and only woke at that motion. "Finn?"

"Hey." Finn pulled his hand back and held it up to show it was empty. "I was so freaked out watching you fall yesterday. I thought maybe they were still hurt? So I checked."

"Without asking," Kurt said flatly.

"I...." Finn looked first surprised, then chastised. "I guess. I've surprised you before. You seemed like you stopped minding."

"I do."

"Oh." He seemed more worried and awkward by the moment; Kurt breaking eye contact and slumping back against the pillow only worsened it. "Sorry. I talked to them upstairs before I came down. This is kinda weird," Finn said. He folded his legs under him and sat, putting their heads on nearly the same level. When Kurt didn't ask for an explanation, he continued, "We'll have the same name."

"Guess so."

"Think it'll help?" Finn ventured when Kurt didn't say anything more. "It makes sense, I think. No one'll think twice that my mom's really your mom if you have the same name." He worried at a hangnail when Kurt stayed silent. "But I know you wanna be you again. And that's okay. It's not, like, an insult to us or anything. One day you'll get your birth certificate and library card and everything back. Right?"

"One day."

Finn looked increasingly worried at the terse answers. "Hey, so. You didn't talk about anything, and I know you're probably freaked out. But you need to talk. Burt's trying to help, but you haven't talked to him about _anything_. He's not the guy for this. I am. If what I'm worried about happened, then...." His voice wobbled and failed. Finn leaned in closer and whispered, "What did they do to you?"

Kurt pulled in on himself more tightly and didn't answer.

"Did they...." Finn glanced at the door before continuing in that same whisper, "did they rape you?"

"Doesn't sound like they had the chance." Kurt pictured himself in that pickup, floating above the scene in a third person view. He didn't know how long his brain had gone without oxygen before it died. But it couldn't be too long. A few minutes. And during that time the jocks were busy evading police officers who'd started closing in. His clothes were on when they threw him over the edge. They probably hadn't raped him.

"Doesn't sound like?" Finn repeated, distraught that he couldn't simply say 'no.' His fingers closed around Kurt's wrist, tugging that hand free of his knotted form on the bed. It held him gently when he asked, "Did they kill you?"

"Yeah, twice," Kurt mumbled. Finn's hand closed so hard around Kurt's wrist that it hurt, but he didn't bother pulling free.

"Oh my God," Finn whimpered. "Did you tell anyone?"

"No. The cops don't listen to me, anyway. You don't put a dog on the witness stand." If he had been raped no one would listen to him. It would take a doctor's testimony to prove anything. A doctor was a person.

"Do you remember?" Finn asked in a tiny, young voice.

"Yeah. Both times." Kurt still hadn't moved where he lay. "It hurt a lot."

"Is that what you're thinking about?"

He wasn't safe. Quinn was right: he was nothing but a target for what people wanted to do to him. In the eyes of the world he was most definitely an 'it.' He couldn't even testify for his own abuse. But the deaths were part of it, and so he said, "Yeah."

"So that's all you can remember? Bad memories?" Finn asked almost nervously, like he was heading for some specific goal.

He'd laughed with Mercedes. He'd sung with New Directions. He'd danced at his parents' wedding. None of those seemed to matter. "Yeah."

"So you... you have bad memories you want to replace?"

Just get on with it. Kurt knew what was coming. "I guess."

Finn's expression looked utterly broken, as shattered as Kurt had been lying on that road. Tears beaded in his eyes and sweat poured from the palm that still clutched Kurt's wrist. Then, like he'd decided something, he closed his reddened eyes, leaned down, and put his mouth against Kurt's.

The kiss was gentle. Loving. Unlike the kisses that had been stolen from him during his ownership, it didn't demand anything more. Finn's hand moved away from Kurt's wrist to thread their fingers together; his other hand gently cupped Kurt's cheek as their lips met. It was warm and soft, and with his prone position Kurt couldn't help but compare it to the cold, hard ground of that lonely highway.

Still, when Finn pulled back for a breath, it was easy for Kurt to whisper, "Stop."

Finn, like he'd always done with the wings, pulled back in an instant. He looked so nervous, so hopeful.

"I don't want your charity," Kurt said in that thin, reedy whisper. He knew that wasn't what was happening. But it should be said before they got to the truth. As soon as Mercedes had told him what Finn had said, the implications were clear.

"No," Finn said as soon as he picked up on what Kurt meant. "No, this isn't... believe me, I _want_ to."

And there was the truth Finn thought he was admitting. All lies. "No you don't," Kurt said, closing his eyes.

"I do," Finn insisted. "I want to help you make better memories, like we've been doing. And I want...." His voice failed, but the word still seemed to echo between them. 'You.' "I do," he said when Kurt remained still and silent. "I know this sounds crazy after everything, but you're... I look at you and think... and you know I'm the one person in the whole world that you can trust with everything, right?"

"Why were my pants on?" Kurt asked tiredly.

"What? I don't know what that means."

"You touched me. You got me off. Over and over." He finally looked at Finn's confused face. "Why did I have to change my underwear every time?"

"You... because you...." Finn blushed at the reminder of what they'd done together, and for the first time it really seemed like something more than just scratching an itch. "I don't know."

"I do," Kurt said. The world once again retreated behind his eyelids and reappeared very slowly. "Because if I'd been naked, I would have been a guy. I would have been me. You don't want that. When you talked about Angels before, you didn't care what they looked like. You were attracted to all of them. Because they're its."

Finn was quiet for a few seconds, and when he seemed to realize the implications Kurt was making he gasped, "I don't think you're an it!"

"Yes you do. At least for this. Or else you wouldn't have kissed me." He was almost too tired to hurt any more, but a low, dull throb of pain still bloomed in his heart. Those jocks wouldn't have stolen him for their _fun_ if they'd seen him as a person. Puck wouldn't have had that visible shift in his expression when he stopped picturing sex with a man and instead pictured sex with an Angel that might as well be genderless. Finn wouldn't have kissed him. "And I can't take that. I can't take someone wanting me because I'm a thing. Not right now. So go away."

"But I'm the person who helps you," Finn said desperately. "I can't go away, you just said that you _died_ and I'm the only person who knows that—"

"Go away."

"It's really not like that," Finn said, but he clearly didn't know how to structure his argument. He didn't even know what he was feeling.

"Undress me," Kurt said with no intonation in his voice. "Right now. Stark naked. Pretend the wings aren't there. Want to touch me? It's not just the wings that feel good."

The way Finn paled at the suggestion gave Kurt the answer he'd already heard. The difference was that Finn finally seemed to realize he'd given it, too. He couldn't say that he was attracted to the boy. He was exactly the same as he'd been before this whole mess: attracted to some exotic object. That realization warred in Finn's expression, and he finally protested, "I don't think you're an it. I swear to God I don't."

"Please stop. I can't take being hurt any more."

"But I'm not hurting you," Finn said, startled.

"Yes you have. You let Santana take that feather. You forced my face out in public. You put this whole thing in motion."

"What?" Finn asked, sounding genuinely stunned.

Whatever it took to make him go away, that boy who'd kissed him because Kurt was an it. "It's all your fault."

When Finn tried to speak again, Kurt turned toward the far wall. He realized too late that doing so put his wings right in front of Finn's hands, and just for a second he tensed. There was no need. Finn quietly stood, walked away, and vanished up the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

Driving away Finn left Kurt feeling both nauseated and strangely free. He'd cut off a tie to a life he no longer wanted. Sitting up, he tested his leg on the floor. He'd limped going down the stairs but any pain was entirely gone. It was as if he'd never been touched at all. Retrieving his laptop, he started exploring what had developed around him while he'd let his mind wander as far as it would stretch.

"Most of McKinley has taken off their feathers," Jacob Ben Israel told the camera. "The depth of this tragedy seems to have sunk in among the people here."

The students roaming the hallways looked utterly shell-shocked. The camera roamed a slow path along their ranks, and then focused on a poster on the wall. Three xeroxed photographs of the dead players lined its top. The open space below them was filled with words of love, regret, and prayer. A few people had placed stickers. Others left drawings.

The camera panned further to the right. Four faces were on that poster, including the two that had started Kurt's torture. Just seeing them made his hands tremble and he nearly lost himself to the remembered pain. In the space around their faces seemingly the entire school had left words saying how much they loved them all and how they simply had to get better.

With an abrupt cut, his friends filled the screen. "Do you think that's appropriate?" Jacob's voice asked Mercedes. Her split lip was obvious even on the small video, but she looked defiant in her anger. A feather was still pinned to her shirt. "There seems to be a lot of anger toward your group, now."

"Yeah, I've heard," Mercedes said thinly. "We're 'making light' of things. Well, guess what. I was there. Those guys took a _person_ and started...." She choked up. "They.... and people say they love them? It's wrong! It's so wrong!" She kept repeating that word over and over as she practically collapsed against the nearest convenient person. Puck rubbed small circles on her back and said things'd work out. Somehow, they'd work out.

"This is bullshit," Santana said as she stared with disbelief at the people in the halls. "It's like they're the freaking victims."

"That's how it works," Rachel said softly. "Sadly."

"It is so wrong," Mike said, and Brittany and Tina both agreed with him.

"Finn Hudson, any comments?"

Finn took a long time to answer. He stared at the students in the hall like they were subjects of some anthropological study. Completely foreign. "This is what our school is," he finally said. "It's the stupidest place in the world. No one gives a shit about anything that matters."

"Any truth to the matter that charges are being filed?" Jacob asked, and almost everyone looked at each other uncertainly.

"I mean... his dad's gotta, right?" Puck half-laughed. "Come on. We've all met the guy."

"He's been a little busy," Tina added thinly.

"Charges are being filed," Mercedes said with complete certainty. "We're doing it."

Though her friends looked pleased, they were also clearly confused. "Can you do that?" Rachel wondered. "On someone else's behalf?"

"On ours," Mercedes corrected. She gestured to her split lip and then continued, "Dad's got a broken wrist. They were worried about a concussion. And our house is covered in a whole bunch of dents and broken glass. Hell yeah we're pressing charges. The police have been taking pictures of all that evidence."

Their pleasure grew. So long as no one was actually killed in an attack, assaulting a person always carried a lesser penalty than damaging an Angel. Property damage was the sort of thing that could be argued away in a plea bargain or with community service. But it was _something_ that would happen to punish those boys, and for that everyone seemed relieved.

"Bitch," someone shouted at Mercedes. That relief dropped away.

"What the hell?" Finn demanded, but the girl was already gone.

Another person swept in to take her place. "You're going after them when they're in the hospital?" snarled a boy who'd been a regular at party discussions; Kurt couldn't remember his name, but he had the solid, dim look about him that marked most of that crew. "They made a fucking mistake. Guys are in comas, guys _died_ , and you're bitching about your windows?"

"Did you see the news?" Finn demanded. "Did you see how hurt Kurt was? Did you even care?"

"Did _you_ see that truck in a ditch?" the boy shot back. "Do _you_ even care that guys on your own team are dead?"

"No," Finn said after a long, hateful pause and turned to walk away. He stopped just before he rounded a corner and stared at someone in the distance. The camera zoomed in and found his target: Quinn Fabray. She looked beyond nervous, with darting eyes and fidgeting hands, and hurried away from his gaze when Finn stared at her with ever-growing anger.

The bad mood of the hallway was split neatly between New Directions and Quinn. People nudged each other and pointed after Quinn as she fled. Words were exchanged, then solemn nods or glares. Plenty of glares were directed at the choir too, though, and Kurt saw some people that he remembered from the video with signs and feathers. They wore no such gear that day. Either they'd only done it for popularity and Finn's stock had taken a sudden dive, or they'd cared so shallowly about Angels' plight that the fear of being viewed as inconsiderate was too much.

Just like Kurt had fallen from the sky, that grand new Angels' rights movement had crashed in that hallway after a failed launch. People weren't going to help. Out of everyone who'd known him, only a handful still stood up for him as a person. Eventually they would graduate, marry, and concern themselves with new families. He'd spilled his heart to someone and was viewed as a thing in return. He'd convinced one stranger that he was still a human being but it took being raped and killed to do it.

People weren't going to help.

Things were not going to get better.

The faces of the boys who'd planned to rape him and did kill him were covered in lipstick stains.

That was his life, Kurt thought silently as he set aside his laptop, curled up on his bed, and waited for physical exhaustion to catch up with his hollow mind. And it was never getting better.

* * *

His existence was pointless. And that was all it was: existing. Kurt had no purpose, no drive, no voice. He tried writing and had nothing to say. His only songs were meaningless random selections from a video game. Even his name was gone, and his bedroom felt like a tomb where that boy who'd once existed was laid to rest. If he bled himself dry, he could stay unconscious. But he could never die for longer than moments.

He was as transparent as those other Angels he'd feared becoming. He was empty like the open sky, and as fleeting a presence as a passing breeze.

"Kurt?" he heard from the staircase. It was a gentle question. That was the voice that had roused him from nightmares after his mother died. "Are you awake?"

"I think so," he said. The waking world and dreams seemed much the same by that point.

Burt knelt down next to the bed. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"I don't know."

Fingertips lightly traced the planes of his face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The instinctive 'no' died in his throat and tears filled his eyes. Suddenly, all Kurt could picture was that little boy on the home movies they'd watched before the wedding. This wasn't supposed to be that boy's life. He wanted to be that boy again, afraid of nothing worse than a garden hose in the grass and secure in the knowledge that his father could fix absolutely anything in the world. He didn't want to shoulder the weight of his secrets, and in an instant he knew that he no longer could. "Yes."

"Okay," Burt said softly, thumb sketching loose patterns on his cheek. "You can tell me anything you want."

"He raped me."

Burt's hand stilled. His face sagged with the shock of sudden horror. "Those boys—"

"My owner." Kurt clutched at his collar, remembering the pain that sent him to his knees, and felt the words begin to tumble free. "He forced me down. I couldn't fight back. And then he touched my wings the whole time and he made me like it, Dad, he _made_ me like being raped for my first time and I... I...." A sob escaped him, but he shook his head wildly when Burt tried to pull him into a fierce embrace. That might stop his words as surely as the gag in that pickup, and if they didn't escape then he might choke on them as well. "He stole my name. I wasn't me. His friends hurt me and looked at me and... and he kept touching me and he made me _like_ it, Dad."

Burt's fingers shook where he cupped Kurt's cheek. "That boy... he was right _there_...." His hand began to twitch toward a fist, but he forced it flat. "You don't ever have to see him again," Burt promised. "Him or those friends who hurt you."

"I died."

That warm, broad hand went utterly limp against him.

"I was high. I fell. I broke my neck." Kurt held out his hands and Burt took the hint, pulling him up into a sitting position. Tears began to soak the collar of Burt's shirt as Kurt cried into it. "And I was happy, Dad. I was happy when I saw the ground coming. I wanted to die. I wanted to _die_ and then I woke up and I wanted to kill myself but I knew I never could."

"You... Kurt...."

"I died on Saturday. I died twice. It hurt. I was so scared and it hurt." Great, gulping sobs tore out of him. "And all I hoped that if they were going to rape me, they'd do it before I woke up. That was all I could hope for. Because I can't even hope to stay dead." He clung more to his father with each word. "I don't want to be here any more, Dad. There's _nothing_ here for me. And I can't even stay dead."

"Don't say that," Burt finally said, clutching him so hard it hurt. "You... I need to know all this. You can't... all this time you...." His tears began to dampen Kurt's hair. For a while the only sound was of their cries. "God, why didn't you tell me?" he finally asked.

Kurt stayed silent against a tear-soaked shoulder. Only when the question was repeated did he finally mumble, "It was a good day."

"What?"

"When I got home. It was a good day. You were so happy. It would have ruined it." That logic sounded completely absurd now.

Burt pushed him back far enough to look into his eyes. They were probably glowing again, that low-level bloodshot burn that Puck had seen. "You think I care about a day being ruined?" he whispered. "When you were keeping this all to yourself? When you didn't think you could talk to your dad about... God," he whimpered, pulling him back close. "I knew. I guess some part of me always knew. I just pretended. That's what happens. All those kids, they...."

"I knew what was coming," Kurt dully agreed, then repeated, "I don't want to be here any more."

"We're going to move," Burt promised. He looked anguished.

"I don't want to be _here_ ," Kurt said more emphatically. Not Lima: the world. Life. People with a terminal illness could opt out of suffering. Why couldn't he?

Failure weighed upon his father. He looked as broken and defeated as he had when he first saw Kurt on that lonely highway. "You can't... Kurt. I still remember seeing you for the first time. And I knew jack squat about my life or the world or anything. But I saw you and I _knew_ that my one job was to keep you safe. If, God forbid, I didn't, it'd be because they got through me first." Stroking his son's hair, he choked out, "I can't fight off what's in your head. You've gotta tell me these things. I can't... I don't know if I can always fix things? But at least you wouldn't be on your own."

He'd tried to share things with someone, Kurt thought sadly. And look where that had gotten him.

Tears ran down the man's face at Kurt's silence. He looked like he was watching his child die in front of him. "What can I do?"

"Nothing." Kurt sought out his hand and squeezed it. "It's not your fault. I know you're trying. This world just doesn't fit me."

"One day it will," he pleaded. "Come on, hold onto that. You... when I picked you up you were so damned light. Caught me by surprise." He added with gentle purpose, "Would've liked to have known that was going on."

Kurt shrugged. He'd hidden so much that one more lie was easy to add to the pile.

"But think what that means," Burt said, clasping his hand back. It was as if he were trying to transfer his own strength to Kurt through osmosis. "One day that'll be off," he said with a gesture to the collar. "You will be able to go wherever you want. And you will be ready for it. Be like some... acrobat in the air," he added, smiling through his tears. "And the healing, and staying healthy and the age you are... they can be good things. People are making them bad right now, but they're _not._ All that sounds pretty amazing to me, you know?"

It was like the speech Carole had given him months earlier. He'd been able to believe much more of hers. "I've watched videos about what's happening at school." Nodding idly toward his laptop, he explained, "There's a gossip blog. It's shown everything. And people are giving up on me. They started to help. But this happened and they gave up. I'm too much trouble.

"I'm too much trouble," Kurt repeated thinly. "Hardly anyone cares. Eventually they'll stop caring at all. No one else will. Nothing will change. I will have this on forever," he finished with a hand gripping his collar. "And if it somehow comes off, it'll be the dogs again."

"That's not true," Burt said.

"I love you, Dad," Kurt said sadly. "And I know you tried. But you can't stop them."

Guilt lined his face. "I know I couldn't stop them," Burt mourned. "Believe me. I've thought of that every day since it happened. Watching them take you away was my own personal hell." He hesitated before saying, "If we're being honest, and if we know we've gotta keep talking for a long, long time... things came kind of close to you not having a dad to come back to."

He'd thought that Carole had probably forced his father to cling to life almost against his will, but it had always been with an undercurrent of humorous disbelief. It had taken massive trauma to make Kurt face the fact that one day time would steal him away. A death that wasn't decades away was overwhelming and impossible. The shared truth made him shiver where he sat, but it wasn't as if he could say anything. He'd just said that he wished he could commit suicide and have it stick. It wasn't a happy conversation they were having, but it was an honest one.

"So believe me," Burt continued gravely. "I know I can't stop them. We'll just keep you tucked away and... and as safe as we can," he added. "Until the world catches up."

"But it's not _going_ to be fixed," Kurt said. "I just said that."

"I know. And that's what you're wrong about. People care."

"But—"

"I have a stack of papers up on the dining table that says people care, Kurt." He smiled sadly. "I know it's not about stuff you want. It's about stuff we have to do. But all those people all over the country... they're giving up their time and money to help us. Help you. Because they think it's the right thing to do."

All the pro bono legal work. People volunteering to check real estate listings out in person. Promises to be their family's bodyguard in the court system. And all from people who'd never met him, but didn't first have to be convinced with a first-person view of Kurt's suffering. Because they already thought it was wrong. They'd been trying to get the laws changed for years. When that didn't work, they still tried to help like they could.

"They've been trying to help," Kurt repeated quietly. His world had been so damned limited and exhausting that he couldn't see past Lima. When he read the news it was about television gossip, and like cotton candy it vanished at a touch. If something failed at McKinley, it was like Kurt's entire world had collapsed.

But that wasn't the world. Because those people who had never met him thought what he'd gone through was wrong.

People who had grown up, gone to school, and started families were still dedicated to fixing things.

And they were helping.

"It might take a while," Burt admitted reluctantly, "but don't think for one minute that people don't care. Don't think for one minute that there aren't people who'd call you a person. Maybe you're not seeing them stuck inside this house, but they're out there."

It was a single thread offered to pull him free of quicksand, but it felt like more than he'd had before. "I'm getting really tired of hoping, Dad," Kurt finally said. "Finn did...." His voice died. What was he supposed to say there? There was one thing safe to say, and so he finished, "Finn and everyone did this thing at school. People were paying attention to them. Like I was a person. I was so happy. And now they're siding with the guys who killed me."

A shudder ran through Burt at the words. "It might take a while," he repeated. "But people are trying. Okay? And I promise to you I will take every step I can to keep you as safe as I can until things work out. This will never happen again."

A sudden question struck Kurt. "Are you pressing charges?"

"The mandatory sentences were in the stuff from the ACLU," Burt said neutrally. Kurt could see a 'yes' in his eyes; he wondered why he was holding back. "They're all really long. Sounds like it's an all-or-nothing deal; it'd be for everyone. The ones who woke up and the ones still in comas. Even the ones who died. Families are liable. It's all serious stuff."

The realization sunk in: he wasn't saying yes because he wasn't going to press charges. His own father was picking those boys over him. Kurt knew his self-worth had reached an all-time low, but he could still feel it further crumbling.

But then Burt continued, "That cop didn't listen to you. You were telling him what happened and they didn't care. It was wrong. And they should be asking _you_ if you want to press charges. So that's what I'm doing."

He didn't hesitate. "Yes." They too could watch the world move on without them.

"Okay," Burt said with no judgment either way. "Then that's what we'll do. I know the funerals are coming up this week for the three. Would probably be best if we waited to move forward until after that."

"Do you feel bad?" Kurt asked suddenly, latching onto the explanation he'd first given himself for why his father wouldn't instantly say yes. "For their families? They'd come take them like they took me. Not the cartel, the police. But their parents would watch them be taken away. Would you feel bad?"

"You didn't do anything wrong to get that collar," Burt said, and they both left it at that. "You're probably getting pretty sick of being up there in my room," he theorized. "Want me to sleep down here tonight? Finn can take the couch. I'm sure he won't mind. Can watch the big TV all he wants."

The lawyers and friends of the ACLU were helping him without needing a personal meeting. Kurt's voice would be in the courts, if funneled through his father's. And just maybe he'd manage to make it through leaving that town without ever talking to Finn again. "That'd be nice," he said softly.

The sound of a bed being dragged hit his ears while Kurt brushed his teeth and washed his face. He peered out to see Burt dragging the other bed to the foot of the stairs. Anyone coming down would have to go through him first.

A tiny, lopsided smile on his face, Kurt closed the door again and stuck the toothbrush back in his mouth. Things weren't okay. But people all over the country were helping him, even while he forgot they existed.

Only a tiny sliver of him felt alive with hope. It was more than he'd felt before.

* * *

The next morning Kurt stayed downstairs while he heard Finn wander around for breakfast. When Finn came down to grab his clothes Kurt pulled a blanket up around himself with pointed motions. He could pretend to be asleep, but Finn had started feeling him up before and so he might as well make a show out of his irritation. He didn't know how much he could hope for a better life, dealing with the people in that town was overwhelming, but he at least knew with total certainty that he did not want to be around Finn Hudson.

The results were mixed. It did draw Finn's attention but he only looked at him from the far edge of the room. "You're ruffled," he finally said before he vanished into the bathroom.

With a hiss of annoyance, Kurt tried to smooth down the offending feathers. No good; they only fluffed more as he worked. He'd hidden his emotions behind an icy mask for so many years that it was genuinely troubling to have such an obvious giveaway. Because of that he was still visibly upset when Finn walked back out, even though Kurt's face was emotionless and his voice silent.

"I went to school yesterday," Finn finally said after looking at him for a long while. "I could skip today. We _need_ to talk."

"No we don't," Kurt said. "Because I told Dad everything."

Finn's eyes flashed wider open with what might be fear. He clearly thought that _everything_ meant.... "You mean... about what I did?"

"No. About what I went through." Regarding him coolly, Kurt said, "So I can talk to him now, I don't need you for anything, and you can go off and have your most awesome year ever without me."

"But I have to talk to you," Finn pleaded.

"Are you going to force me to?" Kurt asked. "Are you going to hurt me more?" That had the expected reaction, and as Finn jerked back like he'd been burned Kurt sniffed, "Thought so. Don't worry. You won't have to stay away from me for long. We'll move soon. Enjoy the house. It feels very big with only two people in it."

"I don't understand everything that happened, though," Finn said, risking a step closer. "I don't understand basically the entire world right now, okay? And no one is giving me the chance to figure it out. And I'm trying. I swear."

"You know I can't stop once you touch me," Kurt said after a short pause. "And you still started touching me upstairs in front of Santana. Why would you ever, _ever_ think I would want to be in that state in front of her? I was humiliated. You didn't even notice. "

"I just wasn't thinking," Finn said, although he did seem genuinely distraught when the moment was given that description. "Can we please—"

"You're going to be late for school." Kurt folded his arms across his chest and nodded up at the door. "And you need to go to school so you can win State and go to prom and go to college with an undecided major for three years running."

"Please," Finn tried one last time. "All I've seen of you is the news footage. Seeing you on that road is... it's... you were so hurt," he added with a whimper.

Kurt closed his eyes and focused on breathing. The catharsis of the day before had given him some energy. Finn's appearance had instinctively directed that energy toward him, and every angry word felt like self-defense. But he was getting tired. His mind was wandering to bad memories. "Don't talk about that," he said shakily.

"But they hurt you _so bad_."

"Don't," Kurt almost snarled as memories swirled around him. He felt like he was in the eye of a hurricane, and at any moment the storm might move back in. "Are you too dense to process one simple command?"

With that same cowed look he'd been carrying around for days, Finn backed down and made a few noises that probably indicated he was going to school. He pointed in the direction of the door, waited for Kurt to say anything, and then left him alone.

Now he really was exhausted. Kurt sank back into his bed and tugged his blankets into place, but sleep wouldn't return. He thought of lungs burning for air, bones breaking, and officers discussing a mercy killing. He could feel the cycle begin and knew he was falling away from reality, but it did him no good. Alone as he'd been on that highway, he was left vulnerable to his own mind.

"Kurt?" he heard. It took a few more repetitions before he returned to the present. His eyes focused on Carole's face. "Sweetie? You there?" When he gave her no response beyond that simple attention, she knelt down and asked more pointedly, "Are you okay?"

"You should be at work," he finally said. "Your boss is upset you've missed so much. And you need to keep the job for a while."

"You let me worry about that." She settled onto the floor. "Your dad told me everything." When he closed his eyes resignedly, she added, "I know I haven't been your mom for long, but I am your mom now. I need to hear everything so I can... oh, Kurt," she said quietly as she fussed over his messy hair.

"I knew it'd happen," he finally said. "The stuff during the summer. It wasn't like it was a surprise. And I'm not over it, but I got past the worst. What happened on Saturday... that's fresh."

"What can we do to help?" she asked. She began to suggest shopping for his favorite snacks, even though it was the middle of winter and so fresh foods would be even harder to come by. Movie marathons came next, as she figured a distraction could only help, but he'd watched so many movies inside those walls.

"I want something amazing," Kurt said, shrugging. It sounded ridiculous and immature, like someone asking Santa for a pony, but he was tired of clawing for scraps and being thrilled if he even managed crumbs. "And for it not to fall apart right away. Because that's what happens. I'm happy for a second and something ruins it. The bad stuff sticks around and just gets worse and worse."

"You'll get something amazing," she promised, even though there was no way she could know.

"The people I thought I could trust are falling through my fingers," he eventually continued. "They... I thought I could trust some people to be my friends, but they were just trying to get close. For. You know."

"Well," Carole said, though she was clearly struggling to maintain her optimism in the face of everything he'd gone through, "maybe some people will surprise you for the better, right? You thought everyone had abandoned you until your dad reminded you of all those lawyers, right?"

"It's possible," Kurt allowed. It was _possible_. It was _possible_ that some Senator would grow a heart and do a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington performance arguing for fair and equal treatment. It was _possible_ that all those Angel-obsessed celebrities would set up charities instead of asking their stylists if they could dye feathers to match some spectacular couture dress.

She wanted to say more, he could tell, but couldn't find the words. Instead she contented herself with saying, "Come upstairs, at least. I know you get twitchy being stuck down here."

He still wanted to see more of what was going on around him, even though it was like pulling at a scab. His body couldn't scar but his heart could. "I will a little later. Carole?" he asked, thinking back to the accident of biology that had lead him to that moment. If he'd shown what he was at a normal age, he would have been trained before his purchase. Training took years. "Angels who were taken young, who were trained... do you think they understand what's happening to them?"

Her eyes filled with sadness. "I don't know, honey."

"I mean, I've been ordered to...." His voice caught. Carole's soothing voice was a lifeline to the present and he clung to it until Kurt was able to whisper, "To get down." As her hand tightened on his shoulder he continued softly, "But I hated it, and him. I knew what to call it. I was being raped. What if I'd been trained?" He laughed sadly once, shaking his head. "If you ask me to pass a fork, I do it without even thinking. Would I have _gotten down_ without thinking, or would I have known what was happening? And just been too broken to resist?"

She opened her mouth to say something, shook her head when nothing came out, and instead gathered him into a hug. "How can they _do_ this?" she whispered into his hair. "How can people just ignore how wrong this is?"

"They want to. They want to look good on the red carpet and Park Avenue," he said helplessly.

"What can we do for you?" she finally asked.

"Wait." He shrugged. "My body heals, but this... it takes time. If you see me zoning out," he allowed, "snap me out of it."

"We'll be sure to do that," she said and stood to give him his privacy until he chose to join them upstairs. "Kurt, I know you know this, but more than anything else in the entire world your dad is trying to make you smile. It's all he cares about. So just hold on, and some day you'll be able to."

"It's hard," he admitted. "It's not impossible. It felt impossible right afterward, but now it's just... it's hard." If nothing else, at least his voice would be heard by the law.

"You're strong," she said gently. "You can make it. I know you can."

He didn't feel strong. He felt flimsy. "I'll try," Kurt promised, though, and it seemed to be enough for the moment.

* * *

His abduction, torture, and death made surprisingly small ripples on the national scene. Kurt had expected a little more when he'd ventured outside the walls of Lima to look at the media's coverage there. It seemed like it held all the elements of a story too tasty to pass up: alcohol, violence, and death, all centered on a _thing_ that always drew attention. But that was just the issue: plenty of people before those boys from Ohio had done stupid things to steal an Angel and plenty of people after them would do the same. People more important than them had died or landed in prison.

The only unique feature of his story was the discussion of how badly he'd been injured. Kurt had expected to be triggered by the discussion and almost clicked away from the first story that raised it. To his surprise, though, none of those sophisticated media machines ran the images from the local news. The destroyed pickup was a frequent illustration but his destroyed body was nowhere to be seen.

An explanation quickly came; one story mentioned that "due to privacy restrictions, an image of the Angel could not be shown without its owner's permission." They had to be well-versed in the release forms needed to photograph an Angel for a national audience. Burt had probably been asked, though he wouldn't have mentioned it. The local news stations had been so excited at the story dropping into their laps that they hadn't considered whether it could cause them any trouble.

The overall effect was to make him feel wholly invisible. It wasn't a story about him, it was a story about seven boys and the foolish mistake they made on a cold winter night. The one thing the media did agree on was that a small town probably wasn't ready to have its own Angel. Rural retreats gave room and privacy, while the residents of big cities were sophisticated enough not to lose their heads over seeing something like him. But suburbia simply wasn't prepared.

If he hadn't been left hurting from again being told that it was his own fault for being too tempting, Kurt would have rolled his eyes at the parochialism. Of course journalists in major coastal cities thought that the people around them were naturally more intelligent and capable. It was a good reminder that everyone found it hard to look past the world immediately around them, even though the realization left him feeling down. He had to believe that some people held a big picture view, after all.

Back to the local media, then, to pick at his scab. "Quinn!" Jacob said brightly when Kurt loaded his blog. The camera lens zoomed in to corner her. "Seems like you've had an exciting week."

"Not how I would put it," she said as she looked around for an escape. Passing students glared at her or whispered insults. Quinn looked more outraged with each one.

"Would you like to respond to accusations that everything that happened is your fault?" Hearing that, some of those students stopped to listen.

"It's completely unfair!" Quinn said when she seemed to accept that she wasn't getting out of there. "I never said anyone should break the law. That was completely their decision. And I didn't hand them that alcohol. Their decision again. How can you possibly hold me accountable for what some random guys decided to do?"

"Random?" repeated someone in the audience, and their collective outrage grew over the injured players being dismissed that way.

"Quinn," Jacob intoned. "You've gotta admit that what you were saying _could_ have inspired them. Right?"

"Why is it my fault?" she demanded. "Did you see Gossip Girl last night?"

"Uh," said Jacob. "No."

"Serena ripped off a bunch of feathers to have stitched onto the hem of her gala dress. She didn't ask her mom if that'd be okay." Quinn gestured dramatically at some far-off studio. "The entire country knows way too much about Howard Stern's sexual fantasies. That's how _everyone_ treats Angels, everywhere. Why is it my fault when those idiots hear it all the time?"

"Those idiots?"

"Bitch!"

"That wasn't what I _meant_ ," she nearly snarled at the crowd. "Look. All I ever said was that people weren't wrong for wanting to dream. I didn't say they should ever come near it. I definitely never said they should steal it. That was their fault."

"But you have to admit," Jacob said, "don't you think you sort of contributed to an environment where—"

"Get off it, Ben Israel," Quinn said. "You are not Anderson Cooper. You are never going to be the big important television journalist, so stop playing the part. It's never happening with that hair."

Her dismissal only further riled the crowd and for a few seconds it looked genuinely dangerous. At that point a massive woman, towering over most of them, pushed her way through and put herself between Quinn and her raucous audience. "Hold up," she insisted. "Don't know what's going on, but this ain't turning to violence in these halls." Everyone protested and she held up her hands. "You can be angry but you can't start throwing punches. And I see that about to start. C'mon, girlie. You can come with me to the principal's office and explain what happened here." It didn't sound like a request, and with a nervous glance toward the camera Quinn followed her through the parting crowd.

Violence was stopped for the moment, but from the looks in those eyes Kurt saw it still ready to bubble. After that tragic night the school wanted a villain. Kurt could be neither a victim nor villain; he was an object. The jocks in the hospital and morgue were the ones who'd suffered—or, at least, the ones whose suffering was acknowledged—and so they filled that victim role.

New Directions placed an 'object' above those victims. That looked heartless to much of the world, and so his friends might make good villains. But one of them still carried around a bloody lip and had an injured parent. And even if the school didn't understand why they cared about that _thing_ , no one denied that they did.

Quinn had no bruises. She didn't seem to care about anyone but herself. She spent a week riling people up with words and alcohol, and then called them idiots while they suffered.

McKinley had found its villain.

Funny, Kurt thought darkly. They were wrong to pick Quinn as their explanation for what had gone wrong. What she had done was horrible, but she was a symptom more than a cause. The world was the villain. The world was sick. The world was dangerous. But just like he'd forgotten about the world past Lima, they wanted a villain conveniently walking their halls instead of trying to blame the constructed culture of the entire planet.

What was he _doing_? This wasn't making him feel better. All it was doing was keeping his attention firmly on Lima, in a town packed with people who thought they had a claim on him. He needed to think about being somewhere else, anywhere else. Letting his mind live in Lima would send him back into the depths of depression, and he didn't know how many encouraging speeches Burt and Carole had waiting.

Going upstairs to join Carole in a movie marathon didn't help Kurt. Not really. Burt, although he was busy dealing with a mountain of paperwork, took regular breaks to check on him and fret. But even if he didn't get better, he also didn't feel any worse. That had to count for something.

* * *

Finn appearing in a football jersey was the perfect excuse to avoid him. Kurt froze when he saw the red-and-white; a good part of his reaction was genuine. He jerked back from his spot on the couch, mumbled something that even he didn't understand, and once again arranged himself in the master bedroom. Though he relocated to his bed for the night, it wasn't until after Finn had gone down there and was hopefully sleeping.

He wasn't. "Hey," Finn whispered.

One comfort Kurt had felt was that his home was safe. Seeing a broken door had ruined that. Being trapped in that house with someone who dehumanized him wasn't terrifying, but it was draining. He'd already gone through being a trophy and Kurt had no desire to experience it again. He wanted to be away from the boys who attacked him, the students who mourned them, and the boy who'd paraded him as a prize. Without acknowledging Finn he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

Finn still tried to get his attention when he walked out. Kurt, swept by sudden exhaustion, ripped his covers off and returned to the bathroom. The click of the lock was a satisfying shield and almost made up for his uncomfortable impromptu bed. It turned out to be too uncomfortable to get more than a little sleep, and after an hour had passed Kurt ventured back out in absolute silence. It was only to get his computer, though, and he returned to the safety of the bathroom after that.

He spent the night reading stories on the far ends of the spectrum. Sometimes he read the social activist pages that Tina had sent him long ago, feeling somewhat comforted at the reminder that people out in the real world were trying to help. Often their knowledge was incomplete or misguided, but they were at least _trying_ to help. (One page somehow twisted their heightened physical responses into a theory that Angels went into _heat._ It was so absurd that Kurt actually managed one tiny laugh.)

But sometimes he delved into news archives to read stories about what happened to people convicted of Angel-related crimes. Their actions were seldom sensationalized. It was, after all, a property crime. In a dry reporting style—for CNN, anyway—Kurt read about someone like him being stolen, driven to JFK, and loaded on a private plane. The buyer in Bermuda had probably expected more secrecy than he'd gotten, and to have his new Angel for more than twelve hours before the police swept in, loaded the girl back on a plane, and shipped her to Manhattan.

The article didn't even mention how she would have been screaming as soon as she was driven out of range, Kurt thought unhappily. She would have been in unspeakable agony for hours and he suspected the kidnappers cared most about shutting her up. Maybe they'd shoved something in her mouth, he thought with a shiver.

Kurt scrolled back to the top and looked at the date of that article. March 4, 2002. He wondered how long she'd been owned before her kidnapping. He wondered if she had the same owner. Sometimes owners fell on hard times, after all.

Why was the world so awful, he thought unhappily as he started browsing random real estate listings in search of something they could afford. He could believe that people would try to fix things. In his happier moments—not when he was curled up on a cold bathroom floor—he could believe that the laws would change on some far-off day. But even then it would be so hard. The law said no one could touch him but he'd still died in the snow.

A knock on the door came the next morning. Kurt only opened it when he heard his father's voice. "Hey. Finn cleared out, told me to get you. Said you slept in there?"

"Finn snored," Kurt said as he gathered his things and made his way to his bed. "I'm going to try to sleep now." Despite saying that, Kurt decided to push himself as long as he could. With any luck he could sleep during the afternoon hours when Finn was around and awake.

A note was tucked under his pillow, obvious up close but easy for Burt to miss at a glance. Kurt considered ignoring it but read it reluctantly once Burt had checked him over again and then said to get some sleep.

 _Please talk to me._

Shoulders sagging, Kurt crumpled the note and tossed it onto Finn's bed where he'd see it had been read.

His world seemed coated in blues like a shadow or a bruise. Everything was slow and sad. It was an improvement, he supposed, over what the world had looked like before he'd gotten that tiny thread of hope. Then the world had seemed to lose all its color before his eyes. Just like he had.

It wasn't that he enjoyed being sad, but at least he felt something. At least he knew he _could_ feel something after pain and terror burnt through him. And when Finn tried to talk to him, Kurt felt anger. When he saw clips of Quinn still arguing that it was unfair to blame her and that she was really a victim, he felt disgust. When Burt fussed over him or Mercedes sent one hesitant text saying that she would be okay, he managed a moment of happiness. It was far better to be able to feel.

Eventually he fell asleep, though it was shallow and he was aware of Burt occasionally checking on him. He gently touched his son on the cheek or shoulder each time, like he didn't trust his eyes to know that Kurt was still there and breathing.

One time Kurt stirred more than intended and Burt instantly asked him how he was doing. The instinctive 'fine' died in Kurt's throat. He didn't need to pretend. "I'm sad," he said instead.

"I think you're allowed to be sad right now," Burt said.

Kurt softly agreed with that, then added, "I want to move." Burt promised him they would. They had a lot of paperwork to deal with, but then they'd find that house in their budget and get out of there. Nodding against the pillow, Kurt tried to ignore the worry he had that they were just stretched too thin. "I want them to go to jail."

"Funerals are happening over the next three days, so we'll talk to the police after that," Burt said. A finger ran behind Kurt's ear. He smiled lopsidedly as he tucked the loose hair into order. "Letting your hair get a little long. Need another trim."

He'd tackled the work himself in the first attempt, but it was awkward. Carole had helped him the last time. He'd have to figure out some way to manage on his own until she came to join them. Somehow Kurt doubted he could pull off the look of a hero on a romance novel cover; he needed a haircut.

"What?" Burt asked hesitantly when Kurt started fighting back a smile. He sounded thrilled to see that smile, but also scared that it might die at any moment. "What's so funny?"

"Pictured letting it go long, to make things easier on me," Kurt explained. "It wasn't a good look." He'd been stuck with soft features even before his blood started reshaping his face. A clean, masculine haircut was definitely the way to go.

Likely picturing that, Burt managed a small smile of his own. "Probably not, yeah." Encouraged by Kurt showing interest in his appearance, he continued, "Hey, were you able to fix your winter clothes? I mean, coats and stuff. Or do you need some in different fabric? Go ahead, pick some out online," he encouraged Kurt. "You can be all ready for the big move."

He'd have to expand his wardrobe, as the climate would be at least somewhat different. They'd have to pay to register cars in a new state, pay for business licenses... Kurt's good mood fell away again. He really didn't know how finding his refuge was supposed to happen. Once he would have been thrilled to hear _encouragement_ to buy clothes, but now he was counting pennies for everything in that house.

"I'm going to cook," Kurt decided, getting up.

"Okay," Burt said, confused but not complaining.

"It helps when I have something to do," Kurt said. "And home-cooked meals are cheaper. I can make a lot of them, freeze them... it'll save money." In some tiny way it would help. He'd complained to Carole that he was tired of getting crumbs instead of scraps, but at the moment he was flat-out starving as he waited for something good. Even fulfilling the tiny purpose of saving on their food budget would be something.

Soon pots covered the stove. He guided the kitchen with attention on the edge of obsession. When he measured spices he wasn't worried about money. When he chopped vegetables he didn't remember the feeling of broken bones.

Kurt was distressed when he heard the garage door open in the middle of his work and realized he'd lost track of time. Finn was making a beeline for him and looked ready to talk to him in front of an audience. The soothing mood of his work fell away in an instant. He didn’t want to have the inevitable conversation, but he most definitely didn't want to drag their private business into view of anyone else. Finn looked ready to yell after him if he made a basement exit, and so Kurt, glowering, asked Carole to mind the stove and then moved to the front hallway.

Unsurprisingly, Finn followed him there. Kurt had privacy, then, for his blunt, "I don't want to talk to you."

"I need to talk to you, though!" Finn protested. The immediate compliance he'd once shown to Kurt's wishes was long gone. "Look, all of this, with everything that happened... I don't know what I'm feeling. I have no idea what they talked about in school all day, because all I could think about was here."

"I'm not about to wait around while you figure it out," Kurt said. "Besides, I can already tell you what you're really feeling: it, it, it."

"Not about _that!_ " he said. "I mean. About that, kind of. But about other stuff. I don't... I'm not good with words sometimes, okay? Just give me a second. I'm really trying here." And to his credit, he was. Beads of sweat looked ready to pop out on his forehead.

"Don't bother," Kurt said, shrugging. "We'll be gone soon. You can have the whole house to yourselves."

"But that's not what I want," Finn said as his expression drooped further.

"Right," Kurt drawled. "You want to be popular. Well, have fun with that. Although you might find it a bit harder without playing my pimp, but I'm sure you'll manage."

"What?" Finn sputtered. He began to look more angry than confused, and with one swift motion he moved in front of the door like he was blocking Kurt's exit. Oh, brilliant, Kurt thought. Block the door from the boy who never left the house. Truly, his mental capacity was limitless. Finn opened his mouth to speak but faltered when he saw something outside through the window along the top of the door.

Then his attention refocused on whatever was out there. "Get the fuck out of here," Finn almost yelled and Kurt jerked with his surprise. Eyes wide, he craned his head toward the door like that would somehow let him see through the solid wood. Other footsteps joined them; Burt and Carole had apparently heard his demand. Whoever it was on the other side of the door didn't follow orders, and with purpose Finn punched off the security system and flung open the deadbolt. Kurt was ready to gasp and dive for cover against that waiting threat but hesitated just long enough to see the figure there. The final member of last year's New Directions had come to say hello.

"I don't know why I'm here," Quinn said, chin high and eyes never meeting Kurt's. She avoided Finn's face as well, even as she seemed to vanish inside his shadow. Burt and Carole had heard the vague description of what had gone on at school, but at the moment they hung back to allow the boys their fight.

"Neither do I," Finn seethed. "Leave. You have no right to see him."

Kurt had watched so many reruns and movies while locked in that house. His mind abruptly snapped to a conversation in Scream where Sydney wondered what genre her life was and bemoaned that it couldn't be something happier.

If Kurt found himself in some happy genre, Quinn would apologize for everything she'd done, reveal a hidden trust fund that she would drain to pay for Kurt's new home, and dedicate the rest of her life to making the world a better place. Everything would be wrapped up in a neat little bow and everyone would get their happy ending. Of course, it could just as easily be torture porn. She might be furious and looking for revenge. Maybe she'd whip out a knife and throw it between his eyes. Kurt could easily believe his life was torture porn.

"I guess I just wanted to say," Quinn finally managed, "that it's not my fault. All of those boys took what I was saying and really twisted it. It's not fair to hold me responsible for that." Both boys stared at her. "That's what I came to say, I suppose. It's not my fault."

Ah. That settled it, then. His life really was a documentary. He was just how the world worked: sometimes things were beautiful and sometimes the audience was left crying. Sometimes things ended happily and sometimes the entire piece was nothing more than a warning. Things simply _were_.

Quinn didn't have to be a hero and she didn't have to dedicate herself to revenge. But neither did she have to fix herself. Not everyone got a neat little ending.

"Are you kidding me with this?" Finn sputtered. "Why are you here?"

"I just... it's not my fault," she repeated. The same shadow was in her eyes that she'd carried around during her campaigning.

"I know you don't believe what you've been saying." Kurt waited for her to acknowledge him. Even a glance. There was nothing. She was ignoring him with the same steely determination she'd gained through a life's hard practice. Some people simply wanted to live down to his worst expectations, he sadly thought. "Quinn," Kurt said, one last time. "I came into your hospital room to see her. I know you remember that."

Too proud or remorseful to acknowledge him after all she'd done, Quinn only looked at Finn. "Anyway," she said airily. "Tell your stepdad that it's not my fault. I know he's sure to press charges against those guys on your team, and they deserve it. But I didn't do anything wrong."

Finn stared at her for a long, long time. "This is a moment where you decide things, Quinn. Things that matter. Is this really how you want to go?"

She opened her mouth to reply, but sincerity seemed to overwhelm her. Quinn's mouth shut, her face softened for just a moment, and she said in a voice that started off sad but ended icy, "None of us matter."

Kurt wanted something amazing. Instead, he was getting someone living down to his expectations. His heart ached. All he wanted was one surprise for the better.

A sound of rattling wood hit Kurt's ears. It was sharp and regular, like something was trying to break down a wall. The sound of it filled him with fear and he began to retreat from the door.

"What is that?" Quinn asked, wide-eyed.

Glancing to a side window as he stepped back, Kurt started with surprise. It was the neighbor's fence. It was bowing under regular, hard blows. He had just enough time to process what he was witnessing before the gate ripped open, torn off its hinges by a mastiff tipping the scales at a hundred and eighty pounds. The neighbor's dog landed heavily on the grass before him, shook off the effort, and then bristled at Quinn.

"Let me in," she said intently as she stared at the growling animal.

"You think you're coming inside?" Finn marveled. "With Kurt? Seriously? No."

"Let me in!" she said more desperately as the dog took one purposeful step forward.

"He looks pretty pissed," Finn shrugged, amused even in the face of that growling beast. "Better run to your car."

She looked ready to protest again, but another growl made Quinn yelp and bolt for the safety of the sidewalk. Fumbling the keys at first, she soon yanked open the door, slammed it behind her, and sped off.

"I never liked her," Carole finally said, breaking the silence in the hallway. "I mean, after I found out what happened last year."

"You okay?" Burt asked, stepping closer to Kurt and making noise for Finn to close the door.

Kurt held up his hand to forestall Finn, and instead stepped toward the welcome mat. That dog, the one who'd terrified him for years and had spent the time since his return trying desperately to get close, was still standing there. His tail wagged. His muzzle seemed to hang open in a smile. "Come here," Kurt finally sighed, kneeling down and extending his hand.

Like a prisoner set free from jail, the dog bolted toward him. Each bounding arc of his run seemed propelled by pure joy. He was before Kurt in a second, before Kurt could flash back to the dogs running down the basement stairs. Then, rather than being the fearsome creature from Kurt's memory, he laid before him and put his head obediently on the ground. When Kurt extended his hand he couldn't decide whether to sniff, lick, or wriggle like a puppy, and so did all three.

"Good dog," Kurt said and it seemed to almost crumple in on itself in a paroxysm of joy. He looked over his shoulder as he felt his hand grow wet with slobber and admitted to Carole, "Okay, this was something surprising me for the better."

"He likes you," Burt chuckled. "I can't believe you're letting a dog lick your hand like that."

"He weighs three times as much as I do, probably," Kurt said dryly. "It's not really a matter of 'letting.'" As the beast squirmed against the ground and practically smiled up at him, Kurt asked, "This is all you've wanted this whole time, isn't it? With trying to get near me."

"What's that thing's name, anyway?" Finn asked. It was the first time he'd spoken since Quinn fled.

Kurt found himself able to talk to Finn when the subject wasn’t him, and Finn _had_ made quite a stand against Quinn. That had to count for something. He supposed. "I don't really know." He'd spent years hoping the dog wouldn't notice him approaching his own house. The yards of their neighborhood were clearly not enough for something that size and so he'd decided that everything around his house was also his territory, meaning that Kurt was a dangerous invader. If only he'd been outside during some of the vandalism, Kurt thought darkly. "I've sort of dubbed him, ah, Fred Phelps." Most people probably would have gone with 'Satan.' He was more creative.

"Dad?" Kurt eventually said when he felt as if he'd paid the dog back for chasing off Quinn. "Can you take him next door?"

"Really," Burt asked him quietly when he reached down to take the dog's collar. "You okay?"

"I didn't expect anything better from her," Kurt said, though it was a lie. He'd let himself hope a tiny, _tiny_ bit when she made the effort of coming over. He needed to stop hoping for anything more than a conveniently friendly dog. "And I really want to wash my hands," he said, and Burt took the hint and lead the dog sadly away.

"Can we _please_ talk now?" Finn said when he'd followed him to a bathroom and Kurt had his hands under the water. Kurt carefully finished washing and dried his hands before he turned to respond.

He'd said yes for so long. He hadn't felt like he had the right to say no. If he started giving in again he might lose himself. He barely had the strength to hold the line where he stood. "No," he said softly.

Finn looked heartbroken. "Please," he said insistently. He looked so young and innocent. That was how he'd seemed during the summer, though. He'd made Kurt think he was so trustworthy. If Finn had used him as much as he had, had forced him into public and treated him like a prize after Kurt had shared so much with him... no one could be trusted.

Except for parents and a giant dog.

"Please," he repeated when Kurt stayed silent. "I just... I'll try to fix things. I just have to know how. I know I did some bad things, but I don't understand why you're _so_ upset."

Kurt jerked back. The phrase echoed a similar one said months earlier by a different boy. The same words came to him. "I know you don't. That's why I am."

Finn didn't try to talk to him that night when Kurt finally went to bed, and so he let himself fall asleep. The next morning he woke up to find Finn already gone. That day he didn't leave a note.

* * *

Sometimes Kurt snapped back to himself and realized he'd lost minutes to staring at nothing. Sometimes Burt was the one to gently nudge him back into the real world and ask if he was all right. His father's concern was constant, with the volume rising and falling as needed for each new moment. "Still alive, Dad," he occasionally said, even though Burt didn't particularly seem to appreciate the phrasing.

Soon they'd file charges. People would be _forced_ to listen to him. Quinn might have ignored him even face-to-face, but the legal system would be forced to do what he said. It wouldn't... Kurt didn't know if it would _fix_ things. People were still dead. He'd still died, and had those memories. His hands still shook at feeling a gust of cold air through an open door.

Still, he didn't expect to see his 'something amazing' any time soon. The extent of any pleasant surprises seemed to be a dog protecting him. He'd been waiting for someone to surprise him for the better, and to think that he might be able to depend on someone. That someone appeared to be a dog. He wouldn't complain, but that was a small thing on which to build hope.

"Dad?" Kurt murmured when he saw him working through papers. The attention Burt paid to his work was all-consuming. He fixed things, after all. He couldn't find the magic words to help Kurt's heart or mind, but the sooner he got their life in Lima filed away the sooner he could get Kurt out of there.

"Hmm?"

"How are we going to do this?" He settled into a chair and hesitantly began, "I know you're selling things to the employees. But I don't think that will cover a new place. I doubt we'll find some garage totally ready to buy in a little mountain town, after all."

"It'll work," Burt said brusquely. It was the same gruff tone he got whenever he didn't want to admit to not having everything wholly handled.

"And if you work for someone else, then... Carole _had_ to go to work today. She didn't have a choice. You might not be able to be there when...." When Kurt needed him.

"Kurt," Burt started, but reined in his tone. He didn't like having his role questioned by anyone, but he wouldn't dare snap at his traumatized son. "Please don't worry about this, okay?"

"But Dad—"

"Just a few days ago you could barely move. You're still sleeping twelve hours a day. And you're just... you're _sad_ all the time. Don't worry."

"I just want to get out of here," Kurt said, and Burt clasped his hand and said that he knew. "And I know you want to fix everything for me on your own, but—"

Burt interrupted him. "I'm not stubborn about this, Kurt. Believe me. I care about getting you where you need to be. If someone offers help, I'll take it. My pride can wait for another day. Maybe five years from now I'd say a lawyer'd need to be paid. Right now... free's good."

Kurt managed a small smile. Burt must really be desperate. The doorbell rang and he instinctively cringed. It was the middle of the day. It wouldn't be Quinn again. He doubted the sightseers had returned, not so soon after the _incident._ Finn would still be at school.

"Something else from the courier," Burt explained as he got up. He soon returned with a few heavy envelopes. After tearing open one, which was apparently the target of his search, he considered and handed the others to Kurt. "Here. You said you like having something to do... want to read up on what those say?"

Nodding, Kurt took one manila flap and slid it carefully open. "Ow," he still said, sucking at a paper cut for the moment until it vanished. Burt flashed him a smile, and with the moment disarmed Kurt returned his attention to whatever news the ACLU had sent.

On top of stacks of stapled paper rested a letter. Kurt frowned, pulling it free. It was addressed to someone in a careful hand, but that someone wasn't his father. It was to Kurt Hummel. "Whoever this is," Kurt said as he worked on that smaller envelope, "he hasn't heard the news about my name."

> _Hello Kurt,_
> 
>  _I can't say I've ever written a letter like this before. I hope you take it in the spirit which it's intended._
> 
>  _Although current global politics don't allow more overt stands against what can only be called slavery, there are people trying to help how we can. It is slavery and it's wrong. I've managed to help one Angel, though other purchases have fallen through. I've done work with the ACLU before, though, and heard through them about your family. There are those of us who'd like to help beyond the legal work they're offering._
> 
>  _I recently purchased a large property for my own privacy. I'm certain no one thought twice about the location, despite the general interest in my behaviors, and it just happened to work with what the ACLU tells me you're looking for. My rationale is in the paperwork accompanying this letter. Feel free to adapt it to your own purposes._
> 
>  _Assuming your family is all right with the town, there are two hundred acres waiting for you in the mountains. I don't want to overstep any bounds, but really being able to help someone like you... it seems like the least I can do if you'll accept that offer._
> 
>  _– George C._
> 
>  _P.S. Jo wants to write a check for your dad to open a new garage. But I know some people would be sensitive about that sort of thing. See if you can talk him into it._

Kurt stared blankly at the letter, turned it over, and then turned it back around when he saw only empty space. George C., who owned an Angel and recently bought a huge new piece of land. Who apparently knew someone named Jo with money to spare.

"No way," he whispered when the pieces abruptly slammed into place. A giddy laugh escaped him before he slammed his hand over his mouth, but the noise was already free.

Tina was right, Kurt thought as his disbelief grew. Some celebrities were trying to do the right thing, even if they had to work in the shadows. Her optimism and idealism that he'd so thoroughly dismissed... it was grounded. Something else in the world was _right._

The house wasn't the biggest thing. People could still drive up to it. People could still hurt him there.

But people really were trying to help. There was more goodness in the world than an aborted student group in a single high school in Ohio. People with money and influence weren't uniformly dedicated to slavery. People who had never met a _defective_ Angel with his personality in place still thought that slavery was wrong. If they existed, dedicated lawyers and church-goers and famous celebrities... he didn't know how many more there might be.

"Kurt?" Burt asked uncertainly. "I just... were you... laughing about something?"

Kurt couldn't expect to change the world on his own. His voice was too soft and he couldn't bring himself to force it. He'd find _some_ purpose in the world, and out west it might be something other than 'victim.' But if he thought he could write and affect change... oho, no.

 _She_ could write.

"J.K. Rowling wants to pay for your new garage, Dad." Kurt smiled delightedly at Burt's utter confusion. "And George Clooney just gave us a home."

The man's mouth dropped open, worked futilely around a few attempted words, and then settled on, "What?" He took the letter when it was offered, read it carefully, and repeated, "...What?"

Kurt, still shaking his head in utter disbelief, flipped through the other notes in the packet. Most owners bought their Angels for the worst, expected treatment. But a rare few bought them to offer every freedom possible. They gave up fortunes to keep one person safe, even if they were mere shadows of the people they'd been before being abducted for training.

A rare handful, like him, had actually been returned to their families. But many had lost all of their old lives to training; some facilities apparently specialized in that above everything else. They simply couldn't tell their owners what their name was or where they came from. Others remembered but had been bought on the secondary market after years of ownership. They'd tried to return home only to find that it no longer existed after disaster or war, and their parents had vanished with it.

Still others had been returned to their families... only for them to go up for sale again. That 'it' label was strong. Some people believed it even when it was on their own flesh and blood, and the high price made it an easy decision.

Still, Kurt thought as he set aside that letter. People were trying to help. It was so much more than he'd dared hope for.

The next packet had a few news articles about a ski resort. Kurt furrowed his brow in confusion before he realized it was the supposed reason for buying in the area. He read about the celebrities who started buying mansions and investing in hotels, and then the collapse of its grand plans. It was supposed to be the biggest new resort in decades; instead, it was a spectacular casualty of poor timing and a global recession. Still, celebrities had toured the area and seen its privacy and beauty. No one would question why someone would buy in the area as opposed to overexposed Jackson or Telluride, or some completely random little town. Just like celebrities pretending to be uncaring owners, the charade had to be maintained at all times.

The next packet after that talked about a beautiful valley just to its north. One small town sat within it. A narrow country highway would be a believable setting for a mechanic; surely people would need help if they broke down. To the east was a grand swath of mountains almost untouched by humanity. Nearly half of that small valley had been purchased. An aerial plot marked out the two hundred acres offered to them. One narrow strip reached the highway, but the majority was in green hills nestled below the mountains. Forests filled much of the land. There was a narrow dirt road, a few clearings, and absolutely nothing else.

A drop of water landed on the name 'New Meadows' and Kurt realized he was crying.

The gentle rise of that valley seemed as all-encompassing as a bassinet. It looked quiet, beautiful, and safe. "Dad," Kurt gasped as he felt overcome by joy. It was so sudden and strange that he felt like he had to struggle above it lest he drown. "Dad, did this just happen?"

"Oh my God," Burt murmured, still staring at the letter. "This is... I mean. It came right from them. It's gotta be real. This has... it must be real."

"Are you okay with this?" Kurt asked in a wavering voice.

After all, nothing worked out for him. Good things fell apart. No one surprised him for the better.

His father's mouth worked futilely around attempted answers. Maybe he was aiming for another big speech, but if so, it clearly failed him. "It looks like we're moving," Burt finally said, helpless but relieved.

More tears splattered printouts of mountain slopes and giant pines. It was beautiful. It looked empty.

And people were trying to help.


	15. Chapter 15

Though Carole normally got home after Finn, practices were running long for both football and Glee. Kurt couldn't remember which day of the week matched up to which practice but was unsurprised to hear Carole's voice when the door opened. Both he and Burt returned her greeting but neither rose from where they sat. Papers were spread before them and Kurt slumped against Burt's shoulder. The day's emotional surges had left him in a pleasant, sleepy lull entirely unlike his earlier hollow depression.

"Did something happen?" Carole asked warily when she took in the sight. Her hand halted midway to the coat rack. The question made sense; Kurt, even with all that had gone on in his life, still tended away from being touchy except after very big events.

"Carole," Burt began with teary eyes and a shaky voice, and her face paled.

"What?" she gasped. "What? Did the police call, is it...." Her eyes widened. "Is it Finn?"

"No. No, Carole, this is good." Burt choked back something that might be a sob or might be laughter. "It's really good." Kurt, twisting his head around, nodded at her and smiled.

"What's really good?" she asked. Her brow wrinkled.

"George Clooney just gave us a new home for free," Kurt said merrily.

The next sound in the room was the soft thump of her coat finally falling from her hand. "What?" Carole asked, clearly sure she'd heard wrong. "I don't... Burt?"

He picked up a letter and waved it. "And that lady with all the books is paying for me to open up a new garage. A nice one, too."

"Harry Potter," Kurt clarified when Carole silently mouthed 'all the books.' "J. K. Rowling." Both of them caught her confusion and he added, "We're telling the truth. Really. There's a house waiting for us."

Burt held up one finger. "Well, not yet. It's empty land right now, and you can't start building in the winter. Two hundred acres, Carole. Two hundred!" As she looked between them in mounting disbelief he continued, "So apparently this ranch has a nice guest house we can use in the meantime. Construction'll start in the spring. We can stay in the guest place until it's done so Kurt never has to go near them, and then it'll be all ours." He elbowed Kurt. "We'll build it custom. Which means...."

Kurt realized the possibilities and practically melted into the couch with his relaxation. No more bashing the walls, no more getting water everywhere. "A huge shower."

"Did you say George Clooney?" she finally managed to ask.

"I never really liked him before," Burt admitted, looking over the map with a lopsided smile. "Always seemed too... pretty for the movies he was doing, y'know?"

"Ocean's Eleven," Kurt said, laughing suddenly. "Ocean's Eleven! My friends all had this big plan for me during the summer, and they called it Ocean's Eleven."

"I did like that one," Burt allowed and they grinned at each other.

"Did you say George Clooney?" Carole repeated and Burt finally gestured her over to the papers. After taking a seat she dove into the stack with purpose. Each new page smoothed out a line of confusion on her face, but her jaw went just a little more slack. "Oh my God," she finally said, slumping backward in her armchair. "This is real."

"I called," Burt confirmed. "Talked to people at the ACLU, they say it's on the level. He's been doing behind-the-scenes stuff with them for years."

"It sounds like there are lots of stars like that," Kurt added, mostly to himself. He'd thrown out his entire collection of Harry Potter books, the same as his Madonna songs. Though it sadly seemed like the music would stay deleted, he'd have some reading material for the trip. "Look," he added to Carole, recalling a conversation he'd had with her long ago. He showed her a map and gestured to a spot on the border between Idaho and Oregon. "Hells Canyon," he said. She only nodded vaguely, so he shrugged. Angels, demons. Religious imagery. _He_ thought it was funny.

"When?" she asked after she'd flipped through the stack and looked back up.

"As soon as we pack, I guess," Burt said. Kurt shivered with the same release of tension he'd felt at every reminder that he was almost free of the worst of his old life. As soon as they packed. He would say goodbye to everyone and then they could load the car, plot out a few safe hotels along the way, and _leave._ "You're okay with this, right?" he asked her in a softer voice.

"I... of course. I know Kurt needs to get out of here. I'm surprised. That's all. This is a good thing." She extended her arms for a hug, which Kurt gladly gave. "We just got a new home from George Clooney!" she repeated, giggling. The shock seemed to have faded enough for her to realize how delightfully _impossible_ the moment was.

"I'm just going to call them," Burt said, slipping away from Kurt to stand. "Make sure there's no issue with listing the name change, that sort of thing. Worst case scenario, it takes a little longer but then we're _gone_ , right?"

Kurt nodded. He didn't want a delay. He wanted to go. But it only made sense to dot their Is and cross their Ts. They would be in that new home for a very long time; the move should be when they were ready and had nothing tying them back.

"Remember when you said one day we'd go to Paris?" Kurt idly asked Carole after a long, quiet moment of shuffling through the papers. "It's been a slight change in plans."

"You can still go one day," she said.

He shrugged. Maybe. It could be _fun_ , but it no longer felt like a dream to be filled. He was finding new dreams.

Burt's reappearance killed Kurt's happiness. His face was grave, his shoulders slumped. Of course, Kurt thought as he felt something hollow open inside him. Nothing good lasted. He heard about hope but never got to reach it. "There's a little problem," Burt confirmed.

"What?" Carole asked. Kurt didn't bother. His head hung low and he tried to fight back tears. He knew: they weren't moving. The offer had been revoked. He was stuck in that town, in that house, waiting for the next group of people to continue the torment he'd felt all his life.

"When I press charges," Burt sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sounds like there's a standard deal for what happens next: they _could_ combine the trials, but the defense lawyers dig in their heels for different ones. One at a time. They make it a hassle to go through."

"But the cases finish quickly, right?" Carole asked, frowning in confusion. Everything they'd heard made their sort of case seem so open-and-shut. The laws were clear, they had eyewitnesses, and the police even had the footage on their cameras. It should be a matter of signing a few papers.

"In comparison to others, yeah," Burt began. He caught Kurt's eye and murmured, "I have to testify at every one. Could take months, from start to finish, with lots of breaks in-between. And... and I gotta do it here. Or in Columbus, maybe."

"Are you serious?" Kurt asked after staring in despair. Burt testifying in Ohio meant Kurt would be there, too. "You can't just have the lawyers read a statement or something?"

"Gotta be me," Burt said. "I... look. We can try to arrange it so it'll be clumped together. It'll be a week here, one there. And when we're not needed around here, we'll be gone. Promise."

Though he tried to force the memory from his mind, Kurt had a sudden sharp flashback to trying to escape from his kidnappers. He'd thought he was free and leapt for the sky, but Azimio's hand closed around his ankle and slammed him back to earth. He was _never_ breaking away. But then Burt said something about how 'as soon as he pressed charges' and Kurt's attention snapped back into focus. "Do you have to?"

"What?" Burt asked, taken off guard. He caught up and said, "Kurt, _you_ said you wanted to press charges. You didn't even have to think about it."

"I want to go," he said. "More than anything else I just want to be somewhere where I can... go outside. I can't even safely step into my own yard unless it's pitch black out. I know we're talking about sending them to prison. I already feel like I'm there."

"Sweetie," Carole began hesitantly, glancing at Burt. "Think about what you're saying. They did terrible things. They hurt you."

"Believe me," he said more sharply than he meant to. "I know." Carole did look cowed by his tone, and without that rancor Kurt continued, "Three of them died. _They_ don't come back from that. The others... I don't know for sure how they're doing, but no one walked away from that accident." Privacy regulations for minors kept the information limited, but Kurt suspected that accident had made injuries that would linger for years, if not decades. They were certainly headed for physical therapy. Metal plates likely dotted their x-rays.

Some injuries could be overcome with time. Artie had pointed out that he had a good life even if the world wasn't built for him. But they were boys who had made his life hell because they were lucky enough to be born big while he was slender. The world looked away from Kurt's suffering both before the wings and after, while the tall, muscular jocks had every opportunity granted, every bit of attention paid, and every sympathy offered. Their entire identities and tons of privilege were granted because of the fortunate DNA that let them throw a football or a punch.

They could still drive, go to school, and have a family no matter how things turned out. But they'd have some _inkling_ of how he felt. Even a year with a wrist that hurt to move would let them know what it felt like to be a prisoner in a body they'd thought they knew. If they'd never come near him they never would have been injured.

He was a prisoner in that house and he could make them prisoners in four concrete walls. But the worst thing was when he'd felt his body change completely out of his control. Every single one of them might eventually overcome every last injury and get their old body and old life back, when he never could. They'd remember, though.

"I said I'd do what you wanted," Burt hesitantly replied. He clearly wanted them to be prosecuted, too.

"I want them to suffer," Kurt said simply. He was not a forgiving person. His kindness was deep when offered, but limited. His vindictive streak seemed to be satisfied, though, by picturing boys who'd thrown their weight around no longer being able to do so. He tried not to think on the boys who had died, even though they'd done the same to him. That was too much. He would never wish for that.

Maybe he should be a better person. Maybe they'd lost scholarships that would open up their futures. Maybe they'd feel pain every time they forced themselves to take steps until they pushed through that pain at the therapist. But then the memories of that night in the truck returned. If the boys who'd so totally broken him had to take a few years to be able to walk without limping... he was all right with that.

At least, it was enough to satisfy his need for vengeance, and so he could get the hell out of that town.

"I want them to pay," he repeated. "They're going to. Even if I won't be around to see it."

Burt looked at him for a long and quiet moment. "Whatever you want."

Somehow Kurt had the feeling that he wasn't supposed to revel in their suffering like they'd reveled in his. He was supposed to watch justice be doled out in steady, formal increments rather than feeling the sharp burn of an eye for an eye. Maybe so. The old him probably would have done it. But then, the old him wanted to live in a fancy loft, travel to Paris, and micromanage everyone's diets and habits. The new him wanted sky and rivers and he lived in the beating heart of life and death. The boy calling himself Kurt Hudson had forgotten about a lot of social niceties.

"I want empty land," Kurt replied. "I want to be able to walk out of my front door."

"Okay," Burt said, shrugging at Carole. They were resigned but not unhappy, not if Kurt could have the freedom he wanted. "It won't be too long," he promised her. "I'll email you all the plans for the house to get your input, okay?"

"Do I get to meet George?" she asked impishly and everyone there managed to smile again. The sound of the opening door almost ruined Kurt's, but then a calm certainty fell over him. His shoulders squared. Any lingering confusion vanished. Soon he'd be gone and that attempt at family would have the farewell it deserved.

"What's going on?" Finn slowly asked when he realized he'd walked into a family meeting.

"Amazing news," Carole said when she glanced between them and saw she should be the one to say it. "We have a home." When he looked in confusion around the room, she clarified, "I mean... for Kurt. Someone _gave_ us a house out west. With land and space and... oh, Finn. It's beautiful."

"Wait. You already said yes?" Finn asked, sounding confused and a bit panicked.

"Well, yeah," Burt chuckled. "It's amazing. He's gonna have that space he wants. Open sky, right?" he added with a nudge for Kurt's ribcage.

"Right," Kurt said levelly. His eyes never left Finn's, nor Finn's his. "The money's all taken care of. I can start packing tonight."

"But," Finn began uselessly, and then darted his gaze around the room again like it held the answer for what he should say next.

"I know it'll be sad for them to move away," Carole began, "but just think how wonderful this is for Kurt. Right? He can be happy," she added with affection.

"We'll have to swing by the UHaul store tomorrow," Burt mused. "We need boxes. Don't want to use their trucks, though; don't trust 'em. I'll see about renting some better ones. The guys at the garage would drive one if we ask them to."

"I could drive," Finn said instantly.

Burt shook his head. "Middle of winter, kid. I appreciate the offer, but you're not used to handling big trucks. And we'll be crossing mountains. It wouldn't be safe."

"Finn," Carole suggested. "Kurt probably needs to go through his things and figure out what he really wants to pack. Why don't you go help him? I'll do the same with Burt, so they can be ready to actually start loading boxes tomorrow."

Though he opened his mouth to protest, Kurt then shrugged and relented. It was almost over. He was almost free within the far boundaries of his collar. He could stick it out just that much longer, and with hope in his heart he felt ready to say "no" as many times as it took. "I'll get to work," he agreed. Hugging Carole, he whispered, "We'll have a great house ready for you, okay?"

"I trust your eye more than his," she confided. "Make sure to keep me in the loop; we can always outvote him."

As Burt and Carole started good-naturedly arguing over his stance that it was basically a cabin in the woods and so 'macho' was just the _default_ , Kurt walked steadily to the basement door. His mind already felt a mile above Lima, looking down on the town that a boy with dreams of stardom and a wardrobe full of sweaters had learned to navigate. It seemed like someone else's home. It was just some random collection of homes and lights, as would be seen for a scant few minutes from a plane passing overhead.

Heavy footsteps followed him. Kurt didn't acknowledge them until he turned to leave his closet and Finn was blocking the door. "We need to talk," Finn said. It sounded like a plea, but one he intended to see through.

"Why?" Kurt asked. "It wouldn't do any good. I can't talk to you."

"But you can," Finn said, sounding hurt. "When you first got home I was the _only_ person you really talked to. You said you liked having me around. That you _needed_ me around."

"Sorry," Kurt shrugged and began stripping clothes off their hangers. "You'll have to find some other way to boost your ego. I don't need you any more."

Finn looked ready to cry at the complete dismissal. "Mom said you could be happy. But I made you happy."

Jaw clenching, Kurt let his clothes fall to the ground and rounded on Finn. "Fine. You want to have this conversation? We'll have it. You did make me happy. You made me feel safe. You probably kept me from losing my mind. You did keep my dad from killing himself. You were amazing."

"Then why do you _hate_ me now?" Finn asked, almost in a whimper. He couldn't stand being hated. He crumpled under it.

"Because I know you can be that good of a person," Kurt replied shortly. "And you would throw it all away. You did throw me away. You threw me away, Finn," he said more pointedly when Finn tried to argue. "You turned me back into a trophy to earn _popularity_ with. You humiliated me where other people would see. And you _knew_ what I'd gone through, you...." Damn. He'd thought he had it under control, but sudden hot tears prickled at his eyes.

"When I wore that feather and sign," Finn finally said, sounding terrified of stepping wrong and ruining things forever, "you looked at me like I was awesome. Like I had done something that mattered."

"Yeah, well," Kurt said thickly. "Don't I feel stupid."

"I told Quinn that we have to figure out what matters," Finn pleaded. "Doing that mattered. Getting people to change their minds mattered. Going to State doesn't matter. Not when they were killing you while I was winning a stupid fucking _game._ "

"Then why, Finn?" Kurt asked. He could feel the faint tickle of tears running down his cheeks. "If I _matter_ , then why did you hurt me for stuff that doesn't? Why did you keep pushing me to be popular if being popular doesn't matter?"

"I. Don't. It's... it's all I know how to be," Finn finally said. He sounded crushed to admit it. "When you saved my life that was the biggest, most amazing thing I'd ever, ever felt. You didn't want me to die and so I didn't. You can _fly._ And everything about you, the blood and... and everything is just. It's." His eyes closed. "It's beautiful."

"I am not going to listen to this," Kurt snapped and tried to push past him, but Finn caught him by his wrists. "Are you really going to make me stay here?" he asked in a shaking voice. "Going to force me?" Fear stabbed deep in his gut as another question rose, one he didn't dare vocalize: would Finn force another kiss?

"You," Finn began in a voice that started off shaky but gained momentum with each word, "are bigger than this town. People like you are bigger than this _world._ I can't believe how we used to sit in that choir room and talk about what you'd turn into. And we cared about the stupidest, worst parts of it."

"It?" Kurt repeated and Finn's eyes flashed.

"You know that's not what I meant." His hands were warm and strong against Kurt's wrists. He very much doubted that he'd be able to break free unless Finn let him go. "You matter. Even if people say you don't."

Kurt's hands clenched uselessly into fists above where Finn held him. "Then why did you treat me like I didn't?"

"That's who I know how to be, okay?" Finn finally said after struggling for an answer. "I thought if I could be the best, biggest Finn, then... then I could _fix_ things."

"That's not the best Finn," Kurt flatly said. "The best Finn, the one who I trusted and who knew how to help... he wasn't the biggest. That Finn was quiet. _Gentle._ He made me think that he cared about what I'd been through. But as soon as you were back in that school it's like that person vanished. And I knew what you actually cared about."

"Come on," Finn pleaded. "Remember my sign?"

"Yes," Kurt said. "That was amazing. Too bad the boy who wore it didn't really think about me as a person. Kind of ironic, considering what you were aiming for. Are you going to let me go?" Warm shackles fell away from his wrists and Kurt hurriedly wiped at his face. It'd take a few minutes for the streaks to fade and the bloodshot glow to ebb.

"Getting people to join a club is not the best thing I've ever done," Finn finally said. "Stopping you from looking _terrified_ when you zoned out is the best thing I've ever done. Whatever you were seeing in your head was huge and scary. That _matters._ I have never felt like I could actually do something with my life that counted more than—"

"So it's all about you," Kurt said flatly, and Finn's voice died in his throat. "Yeah. Same as always. I don't know what you want, Finn. I'm leaving. You'll be exactly where you were before. We don't have to talk. There's nothing to talk about, unless you're trying to get another picture." After a moment's thought he added, "Or another kiss."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Finn admitted. "It's like you're... and I'm...." He looked visibly pained as he strained for a metaphor.

"Stop. Just stop." Kurt gathered clothes in his arms and pushed past Finn at the door. Finn let him. "I just can't trust you, and there's nothing you can do there. Whatever I tell you now, it would just be waiting for the next time you went to school and couldn't help but preen when some random person asks how often you get to touch me."

"You know Mom and Burt won't," Finn said abruptly, and Kurt turned to him in confusion. "Touch you."

Kurt started in shock. "You think I'm ever going to let you touch me again?" he gasped.

"You said you were happy. _Totally_ happy. Don't you want that?" Finn began to ask, but Kurt walked past him up the stairs. Hopefully his face wouldn't be a giveaway. If it was, well... he was almost gone. He couldn't imagine they'd force him to stay in that town to work out his disagreement with Finn.

He was left blessedly alone while he started reviewing the kitchen. Kurt began making a methodical list of items they'd need to check against the guest house's inventory. It would be months there. He didn't want to live those months without a citrus zester. Eventually he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see his parents. "Checking a few other things," he confirmed. "It'll be a while before you move with everything, Carole."

But it wasn't one of their voices he heard next. "Hey," Finn said loudly, having come up from the basement.

"Go back down, Finn," Kurt said. "We don't need to have this discussion right now."

"I'm not talking to you," Finn said. He dry-washed his hands as he walked up to Burt and Carole and began, "So here's the thing: I'm stupid."

Carole jerked in surprise, then instantly pulled him in for a hug. "Oh, sweetie, of course you aren't."

He pushed her gently away. "Mom, I really am. I'm not good with school stuff, and it took an awesome coach to make me halfway decent on the field. Other guys in Glee sing better than I do. The only thing I ever felt like I could really do was be popular."

"What's this about?" Burt asked, his forehead crinkling. "And don't be so hard on yourself."

Finn continued without acknowledging them, "At least, that was the only thing I felt like I could do before all of _this_ happened. Before me and Mom kept you from totally losing it, Burt. Before Kurt told me everything that happened to him as soon as he got back," he added, and Kurt mentally cursed at the confession that he'd shared that trauma with Finn when he'd hidden it from the two adults.

The glance Kurt got from both of those parents told him they realized the significance of what Finn had said, but they didn't seem angry. Confused, but not angry. It was hard not to hiss in irritation and just tell them to send Finn away before he stole another kiss, but Kurt bit his tongue.

Finn looked nervously between their parents. And then, taking Kurt wholly by surprise, he proceeded to set Kurt's trump card alight. "Kurt probably thinks this is because I like how he looks, but it's not that." He saw the surprise from both parents. "Yeah. It's pretty much everyone at school who thinks that way. It just means we're not blind."

"Oh my God," Kurt muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. That was why he needed to get away from that house.

"I felt like a _good person_ when I was really helping. And maybe it's selfish to be thinking about me," he admitted to Kurt, "but whatever. I helped you. You said I did. You said you needed me. The Finn who helped the two of you, even though no one knew I was doing it... he mattered."

"Where are you going with this, Finn?" Burt carefully ventured.

"When you leave," Finn said after a long, shaky pause. "When you move to that little town where no one knows you... I want to move, too."

No one said anything. The silence went on long enough that Finn finally swallowed, threw back his shoulders, and repeated, "I want to move."

Burt and Carole shot each other uncertain looks. "You said you didn't, though," Carole countered. "That's why we stayed here in the first place. For you."

The words stabbed at Finn. He seemed to crumple under the guilt. "If we'd moved, it would have happened before they hurt him," he murmured. Then he looked ready to be sick.

"He doesn't want to move," Kurt said. "Just ignore him."

"No!" Finn almost shouted. "I've been ignored ever since they hurt you. I tried to help and everyone shut me out. Like, literally. Door in my face. And then I had to go to school when I didn't want to. I want to help now, and helping means being here." He fumbled his words and gestured weakly at the papers spread on the coffee table. "I mean... being there. Wherever there is."

Carole, still shooting guarded looks at Burt, retrieved the map and handed it to Finn.

"Okay, right," Finn said after he'd studied the offered home. "I want to be there." He moved to set it down, but then frowned and brought it back up for a last glance. "George Clooney?"

"Just stop," Kurt told him.

"What's this all about?" Burt asked after peering between the boys. "You were getting along great. And apparently," he added, looking at Kurt like they might need to discuss the topic later, "you told him everything when you didn't feel like you could tell anyone else."

"He was just _there_ ," Kurt tried to explain, though that seemed to hurt Finn even more. When the boy tried to protest Kurt spoke over him. "I don't need you any more. I have them. Okay?"

"So you want to be a kid forever?" Finn asked. The question made Kurt scowl but he pressed on. "You're not your dad's equal. You never will be. Because he's your _dad._ "

Burt tried to step in. "Hey, now. Maybe he talked to you before, but I will do whatever he needs me to, okay?"

"Will all respect," Finn said, glancing between them, "you can't. Because you're supposed to be someone who always takes care of him and never lets him down. That's why Kurt didn't tell you stuff."

"Stop it," Kurt seethed. Aware that they might start to tread dangerous waters, he grabbed Finn by the sleeve and pulled him far enough away to shield their conversation. They hadn't lost their audience, but at least they were only in pantomime before them and the parents seemed willing to give them a minute. "You weren't wrong to not move the first time we asked. But that was the moment when it could happen. Because after that you did things that _hurt._ "

"And I'm sorry," Finn said with what sounded like complete sincerity. "You'd just... you'd told me _everything._ After that I never thought that you'd hide something if you had a problem."

"So this is my fault?" Kurt asked. "Wow. Okay."

"No! I didn't mean that." Finn raked his hands through his hair in frustration. "Of course it's not your fault. Do you... did you really mean it when you said it's _my_ fault?" he asked. As Kurt flashed back to that moment when he'd told Finn that absolutely everything that happened was on his shoulders, Finn almost whimpered, "Seriously, do you really think it's all my fault?"

A guilt trip, now. That was absolutely wonderful. No, it wasn't fair to tell Finn that it was all his fault. The fault for hurting Kurt fell with the people whose hands had brutalized him. The fault for riling them up belonged to Quinn. The fault for so casually sharing his whereabouts, Kurt had realized upon rewatching some videos as he tried to make sense of the world, was Santana's. "No. It's not all your fault," Kurt allowed and Finn relaxed. But Kurt continued, "It is your fault for pushing me out into public. It is your fault for using me to improve your own life. It is your fault for lying to me and making me think you were trying to help me when you just saw me as a thing."

"But I _don't_ ," Finn cut in after his attempts to argue the previous two points went unheeded.

"You do. If you saw me as a person, you wouldn't have done...." Kurt's eyes closed. "What you did. Because there's no way it would have happened before everything, so there's only one answer left: you see me as something less than a person."

"No!" Finn protested, a little too loudly. "It's... okay, maybe I don't, but... it's like you're _more_ than a person and I don’t even know how to describe it." His voice increased past their careful murmurs with each word, even as Kurt tried to hush him. "But I just feel confused, like you're just more... more _important_ than I know how to deal with."

Their parents were there, then. Kurt hissed out a short noise of irritation. "He hasn't known how to deal with me ever since the accident in the garage," Kurt said before Finn could give them any explanation. "And 'more than a person' still means 'not a person,' and I just can't deal with that right now."

"But you're a person," Finn pleaded. "Just... there's more on top of that, with all this cool stuff for you, and all this sucky stuff from the world, and—"

"He's just a person, Finn," Carole said gently, trying to defuse whatever argument was going on. "Don't say anything more and just leave it at that."

"I'm on some pedestal, apparently," Kurt said. "Like the Hope Diamond. In a museum."

"I'm trying to say that it's all _good_ ," Finn said.

"Leave him be, Finn," Burt said softly. The desperate light in Finn's eyes died, like he was once again seeing the door slammed in his face. "Look. I know all of this is confusing. But you get to have a normal life. You have a chance to work through everything and move on. If you two have had some sort of argument about all this, _this_ of all things... don't push it on him. Not any more."

When Finn tried to speak up again, Carole took over the job of soothing him. "You don't want to move, sweetheart. Not really. Think about it: you're almost done with school. You'd miss out on graduating with all your friends."

"So will he," Finn said.

"Thanks for the reminder," Kurt said bitterly, and both parents grimaced that he'd taken it that way.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... if you can miss out on things, so can I. That's fair."

"Nothing is fair about this," Kurt shot back.

The realization that he simply couldn't give the one right answer seemed to dawn on Finn. Hope withered to a last few vestiges where he stood. "You looked happy when Mike made a stupid joke about you," Finn pleaded in a last-ditch effort. "When people laughed at you getting the worst songs in the _world_ for your voice on Xbox. Do you think they'd do that?" he asked, gesturing at the parents watching with lines in their foreheads.

"So you think I'm just dying to have someone insult me?" Kurt said after recalling those moments. He'd been so happy when everyone was there. That happiness almost seemed unfair; it made the night that soon followed hurt all the more in comparison.

"I think you want someone to treat you like you won't break," Finn said, but from the expression that earned he seemed to instantly understand that he'd misstepped.

"I am broken," Kurt said shortly, even though the bald statement made everyone flinch.

"I don't... what do I have to do to prove I'm not a bad guy?" Finn asked. "Because if you tell me I'll do it. But I have to know."

"Just leave him alone for now, Finn," Carole said, and Kurt was able to walk away in peace.

* * *

That peace didn't last forever. Kurt was packing and the room already looked strangely bare, but eventually the hour grew too late. He'd been expecting Finn's arrival for some time. The boy stared at him for a long while after he walked down the stairs. Kurt kept working until Finn's voice abruptly broke the silence.

"You don't have to forgive me. You don't even have to like me any more. I know you're mad about a bunch of stuff, not just one thing. But can you at least tell me that you can _imagine_ me as good?" Finn asked that with such sincerity. After all, Kurt thought, he was 'more than a person.' Like some mythological being passing down judgment, apparently. He was a freaking Sphinx. A hero would care that the Sphinx judged him well. But he'd never see the Sphinx as a person.

"You took pictures of me looking terrified," Kurt finally replied, "and you didn't even notice I was scared until Santana told you. No, Finn. How can you screw up this much and expect me to just say, 'oh, he was just having a bad day?'"

"But—"

"I'm going to sleep now. You can keep talking if you want, but if you do, have fun explaining to my dad why I slept in the bathroom again."

"He's my dad now, too," Finn protested after a moment of silence.

"Let's stop pretending," Kurt replied and went to brush his teeth.

"I think I'm a good person alone," Finn said when Kurt returned to the bedroom. He'd clearly been waiting outside the door to spring on him. "I like who I am when I'm just talking to Burt, or Rachel. Or you. But then I walk outside and... and I don't know. People are just really loud."

"And you get confused?" Kurt asked snidely.

"Yes," Finn admitted with no hesitation, which Kurt hadn't expected. "I want to do something that matters with my life, okay? And I just can't figure it out here. I hope that when I figure out who I am then I'll be able to tune people out, but I just... I want the quiet. I'm good in the quiet."

"You don't have to move across the country for that," Kurt said, rifling through sleeping clothes and then stepping pointedly back into the bathroom. He spoke through the door. "Any time before now, you could have stopped saying you were 'school royalty.' You could have quit the team. You could have stopped playing whatever role you thought you were supposed to fill."

"But—"

"But you didn't, right."

Finn wasn't waiting to pounce again when he walked back out, but he did pick up the conversation after a respectful pause. "I heard you aren't pressing charges." When silence served as Kurt's only confirmation, Finn ventured, "I just don't understand why you let that slide." His shadowed eyes told the real story behind the question: he wanted to know why those killers had been 'forgiven' but Kurt couldn't move past the slow buildup of Finn's offenses.

Kurt answered that true question. "Because I never trusted them," Kurt said shortly and went to sleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned. Burt began going through the contents of the house with vigor. Carole picked up boxes. And Finn, once again, was forced to attend school.

It would be easier to forgive Finn. He'd have someone to talk to again about the topics too uncomfortable for parents. He wouldn't have to expend the energy it took to hate someone. He wouldn't have to gear up for an argument or stealthy retreat every time Finn approached. Finn had hurt him deeply, but he had also saved Kurt. In some giant cosmic balancing act they probably evened out. But his heart didn't deal with logical weights and measures, it dealt in fresh pain and wounds that couldn't scab over.

He'd just been hurt too many times. There was precious little faith he could muster for anyone improving _that_ much compared to what Finn had done in his grabs for glory. No matter what Finn said about being 'better than human,' it was too hard to believe that someone could have any view that said 'inhuman' and genuinely change their ways.

So, maybe he would be effectively stuck in the role of a teenager until the collar came off. Kurt shrugged loosely as he started rummaging through drawers. That wasn't so bad. He'd have parents retreating in age, new siblings advancing in it, and him staying motionless in the middle. Maybe it would be an adventure learning how to navigate that dynamic. It would be like figuring out his body again, except without any need to lop off fingers.

Or maybe, like Burt said, he needed more than the role of a babysitter. Maybe that would be a prison of its own.

Well, he'd been prepared to wait a year and a half in a house-shaped jail until he saw a hint of freedom. The big, beautiful prison cell of a mountainside would have to do until the world changed.

Kurt threw away old papers, dying pens, and scribbled notes. He'd expected to feel more nostalgic than he did, but very few things in that room resonated any more. His fingers closed on a notebook that looked vaguely familiar. Kurt opened it and saw his handwriting filling the pages, but the words made little sense with no easily-recalled context. He turned the page and magazine cutouts fell free.

They were of celebrities and their Angels.

A sinking, nauseated feeling filled him as he realized what he was holding: the plans he had made for his life as a famous star with an Angel trailing behind him. With trembling fingers he plucked one cutout off the floor and turned over the picture of a London socialite and her 'pet.' Notes were scribbled on its back.

 _Brown wings. Disgusting! Why does anyone buy them??? Note to self: only take one if someone pays you._

Almost despite himself, he flipped through more notes he'd made on other pictures. White wings were perfect, but that female Angel needed to be more firmly cinched into that corset top. A male Angel was either trying to smile or was trying for a disaffected model pout, depending on the picture. Either was fine, but _its_ owner needed to pick one and run with it.

One was blindfolded, completely at the mercy of wherever the owner led. That owner seemed quite proud of that setup, like the combination of wings, beauty, and blindness was some sort of symbol.

 _What's the point? I don't get performance art._

On another page he'd tried to come up with features that would best complement his own. He'd debated the best height of a partner in a photograph. And, of course, he'd written down page after page of potential new names for his pet. Kurt had spent a lot of time dreaming about being the person with a controller. He'd never thought about the people inside the collars.

He'd made sure to write down that he wanted a 'fresh Angel' straight out of training, rather than one with a previous owner. No used cars, no used clothes, no used Angels.

In a moment of nearly blinding rage, Kurt _hated_ the boy who'd written those pages. The boy who, Kurt still thought on some level, deserved everything that had happened to him. He didn't know how the gulf between him and _that boy_ could be so vast.

In that room, with those wings, he worried about whether others like him even knew they were being violated. He quietly mourned all the lives lost. He even felt guilty over not wanting to be raped any more when others still suffered. He wasn't perfect, but he was so much better than he had been. He'd changed. He really had. Kurt had to believe a person could change for the better no matter what they'd done, or he could never forgive himself.

With one sharp, angry noise for the monster he'd been, Kurt ripped apart the pages of that notebook and crumpled the shreds. He threw them wherever seemed convenient. He could clean up later. Finally only the empty shell remained; Kurt flung it aside. That paper butterfly with a broken spiral spine fell and landed on Finn's bed.

Finn's bed.

Finn.

Swallowing hard, Kurt looked at the scraps of paper littering the room around him.

If Finn couldn't make up for what he'd done, then how could Kurt? Finn had actually hurt someone, but every step was unintentional. All of Kurt's plans were only that, but he'd actively envied slaveowners and rapists with every intention of following in their footsteps. He'd planned to strip someone of his or her name. He hadn't even wanted someone who was _used_.

Bile rose in Kurt's throat, and although he kept his composure it still left him feeling ill. He was not a forgiving person. He knew that his decision to avoid pressing charges was driven not by mercy, but by a need to leave that town and the knowledge that his attackers would know what changed lives felt like. He held grudges. More often than not, they were justified.

He'd be justified to hate both of the boys in that room. Both the boy with the notebook and the boy with the camera had done bad things.

Kurt looked around the room, taking in all the shredded, crumpled remnants of his first life. He'd been so sure that he knew who he was and what his path would be. Now, forced to confront himself, it was like a different hand had written those words. His big, spectacular dreams now looked like the evidence of a crime and felt like weights pulling at his heart.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the last vestiges of who he'd been.

What did it take to earn forgiveness?

Rachel had been as bad as him and she was trying to change.

Kurt never wanted to see his owner and rapist again. There was no other label he could ever have in his heart. Even so, Kurt had protected him from his father's anger because he understood the impossibility of the kindness he'd offered.

And then there was the other side: it was obvious what it looked like when people didn't use his change as a catalyst. Not once had Quinn shared any talk of ownership, but she refused to confront herself and grow from it. Those boys on a snowy Saturday night didn't think any differently from most of the world; they'd simply acted on their indoctrination. He couldn't ever forgive them, he could only get away.

But Finn was trying. He wasn't in that hateful category, not at all. Like a bull in the dark he'd stumbled into hurting Kurt, but he was trying so hard to fix it when the lights came on and he saw what he'd done. Because he was trying... Kurt's shielded heart really could find forgiveness. Forgiveness, though, didn't mean he wanted to be around a person. He forgave Rachel and he forgave Blaine, but could only see one of them without feeling sick.

As Kurt looked around the scraps of paper littering his floor, he wondered which category his own face would fall into the next time he saw a mirror. Kurt realized he'd implicitly pardoned himself, if he fell into the same group as those two. He _was_ trying. He didn't know what he was doing to help, but he was trying. He hadn't figured out that one magical solution for what he could do to be that good person, but he was trying.

Everything was such a mess. His life, his family, the world: he didn't know how he was supposed to handle everything. More often than not it felt like he was back on that highway, unable to catch up to all the damage that had been dealt to him. That broken leg had kept his body from healing then. His broken heart made it difficult to see anything but a quiet role as a teenage babysitter for decades to come. He'd healed enough to trust that people in the world wanted to help him, but it was so hard to let anyone close.

His phone buzzed. Kurt frowned, not recognizing the song. It sounded like some sort of godawful college rock, all growled lines and pulsing drumbeats. It was certainly nothing he would have loaded on his phone himself. He leaned over and saw Finn's name on the ID. Just another boundary violation, Kurt grumbled as he realized what had happened. At some point Finn had apparently grabbed his phone and changed the ringtone for his number. He couldn't help but cross across the line over and over.

Finally Kurt acknowledged the text and saw it spring up.

 _pls check jbis blog_

He didn't want to. Very little positive had come out of there, and the video of the beautiful day with the signs was soon ruined. Kurt was about to set aside the phone when he once again saw the crumpled field of paper around him. With that reminder of what he himself had to make up for, he reluctantly went to look at whatever Finn was promising.

"Hey!" said Finn as soon as he appeared onscreen. "So I promised you a big scoop, right?"

"There are a whole lot of big scoops going on at this school right now, Hudson. Tick tock."

"Well, here's another," Finn said, looking directly into the lens like he was seeing somewhere miles distant. "I'm not going to be the Titan quarterback at State." A few people stopped in the halls to gawk; that was apparently the first he'd said of it to anyone. Finn reached over to grab someone offscreen, then pulled a stranger into frame. A blond boy in a letterman jacket seemed beyond confused as Finn slung his arm around his shoulders and gestured to the camera. "Sam's gonna lead the team."

"I am?" the stranger asked.

"Yep. Because I'm quitting."

The hallway erupted with noise. Jacob asked if it had to do with the tragedy that had befallen the team, or the legal battle his family would be facing. Surely there had to be a juicy explanation, you could hear it in his voice.

"Nope," Finn said with a smile. "Quitting Glee, too."

The audience cared far less about that, but Jacob was of course familiar with the entire school's timeline. "But it's right before—"

"There are plenty of other people," Finn said. He clapped that 'Sam' on the shoulders again and said maybe he could take male lead for Sectionals, or Puck or Artie, or some other new boys whose names meant nothing to Kurt. Apparently some of the newcomers stuck around even after Finn's star had diminished. "See, the thing is... I might be moving." He stared at the camera meaningfully. "I'm still seeing how everything works out, but I thought I'd take care of things before the very last minute."

"But what if you don't move?" Jacob asked. "Then you'll just have thrown away everything for nothing!"

"Well," Finn shrugged. "Guess I'll get used to the quiet."

Kurt groaned softly and propped his chin in one hand. Finn's big, dramatic gestures... couldn't he just do the day-to-day minutia and get rid of the need for a big fix at the end of a slow-motion trainwreck?

Before the clip ended, there was one last statement from Finn. No one in the hallway would know its context. "Back at the lake you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Not this. I don't know what, but not this."

"Who's he talking to?" asked some random student off-camera, and then the clip ended.

"Oh, Finn," Kurt said dryly to himself, because it just seemed to be the thing to do. Remembering the changed ringtone he reclaimed his phone, hunted down the new song added to his library, and tapped the name Finn. Kurt listened to the lyrics as they played and transcribed a few into a Google search window. The answer soon popped up: Daughtry, 'Sorry.'

It was a terrible song. But he appreciated the sentiment.

 _Sentiment_ was what he wanted, not big gestures in a public hallway. He wanted to feel comfortable in his own home, like he had during the month before school started. He wanted everyone in the world, including Finn, to treat him like always. He wanted to be able to sign on for their virtual band and not think that any of the people next to him were focused on his changes instead of his notes.

Kurt stood to plug in his laptop and felt something crumple below his feet. One of the slivers of his notebook lay there. He was abruptly reminded of the countless other scraps across the floor. That horrible boy who'd written them had changed overnight, but most people healed more slowly. Most people needed more time.

Even he hadn't healed instantly on that highway. He'd needed that one sharp, painful push to reunite his shattered leg before healing could begin. Fixing that bone hadn't healed him. It had only given him the chance to start and with time, he did.

Quietly seeking out a trashcan, Kurt began throwing away the crumpled bits of his notebook. Like he and his father had once tried to dispose of his wings, that refuse was destined for a fire. His old life would vanish, he'd commit to the new, and he could move on. Each day would heal everything a little more, but only if he offered that chance for the healing to start.

He wanted that day at the lake back with an almost physical ache in his chest.

"Please don't make me regret this," Kurt murmured as he picked up his phone, took a deep breath, and began typing one short message. He wasn't typing to the boy who'd just sent the gossip mills churning. He wasn't typing to the boy who called himself school royalty. Instead he was typing to the boy who'd kept his father alive, and desperately hoping that he would return in solitude.

 _Okay._


	16. Chapter 16

Kurt stared at his phone for a long moment after he pressed send. He hoped that he hadn't made a mistake and fought back the urge to let out a desperate laugh. If Finn were still the type of person to push him past his comfort levels, to use him as a trophy... he only had to make it a year and a half until he graduated. It was the same worst-case scenario timeline as before, but at least now he'd be able to walk outside.

"Right," he said shakily as he clicked to his contacts and made a phone call before Finn could reply. "So we're doing this."

"Hello?" replied Carole's thin voice. She sounded like she was near a major road; he could hear cars rushing by.

"Carole, it's me," Kurt said, speaking loud so she could hear him. "Where are you?"

"I just left the store with boxes. Why? Do you need me to pick something up?"

He smiled a little. "You could say that. How many more boxes would we need for the whole house?"

"For the whole... Kurt, I don't understand."

"I talked to Finn." Well, he'd watched a video and sent a single-word text in return... nearly the same thing. "You should still talk to him and make sure he understands what he's doing. But if he wants to come, and if the two of you _can_ leave now, then I'm okay with it."

She had no real love for her job, didn't want to lose her new family members even temporarily, and was excited about the prospect of that life out west. Still, this had to be a shock to Carole after being certain that she was staying put. "Are you sure? You seemed upset."

"We can work through it," Kurt said simply. He owed him the chance, because that might give Kurt a chance of his own to make up for his mistakes.

"I need to talk to your dad...."

"Sure. I'll talk to him, too. But for now can you just buy boxes? You can always stick them down here and use them later." His logic swayed her and she promised to return to the store. She would return with a whole passel of the things.

They probably wouldn't pack the biggest pieces. The guest house was furnished and they had no idea what their new house might look like. They'd turn over their home and its remaining contents to the hands of a lawyer, just as others were handling the transfer of the garage. That person might sell things to a consignment shop or to an auction house. Paperwork would be sent as soon as an offer was made.

They'd take a few cherished pieces with them. So many things in a life, though, were superfluous. He'd spent months learning that and finding a true core. "Dad?" Kurt said as he walked up the stairs. "I need to talk to you."

A few minutes later Burt looked at him from where they'd settled on the couch. "I'd be real happy if we could all move," he said carefully. "But you two were arguing. And it sounded like it was over some important stuff."

"It'll be okay," Kurt said. "I mean, I think it will. Let's give it a shot."

The man considered him. His breaths were steady and soft. "Just answer me two questions first." At Kurt's nod he continued, "What did he mean when he said this wasn't about how you look?"

With everything that had happened Finn's words were forgotten, but the reminder sent him to blushing. It wasn't that Kurt was a good liar, but he was excellent at deflection. At least, he usually was; that topic took him too much by surprise to try to change the subject. "I found out that most people... I mean, even some people I know... well." Kurt shrugged awkwardly. "You know. Some of them think things. Things when they're alone. It's the sort of thing you wish you could unhear."

"Oh," Burt said uncertainly. Much like when they'd first installed their security system, sexual topics struck him in a way different from outright violence. He knew how to throw a punch but couldn't force an end to fantasizing, particularly when some supposed 'right' to fantasize had just been a grab for social power in that town. That campaign's tragic end might have squelched some of the town's ardor, but there was no way it was gone entirely. "Kurt, I'm going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth. I won't get mad. I just want to know."

Tensing for whatever the question might be with that sort of buildup, Kurt nodded again.

"Did anything happen between the two of you?"

Closing his eyes, Kurt took centering breaths as his face burned hot. "It. We didn't. Not really. He just...." Gesturing helplessly over one shoulder and hoping that his meaning would be clear, he mumbled, "Just touching. Them." That didn't get a verbal response, and eventually Kurt risked opening his eyes just enough to see Burt's befuddled expression.

"Wait, but don't they, ah... oh." He swallowed. "Uh, well. I really didn't expect that."

"It made me happy," Kurt said, words still soft under his embarrassment. "I mean in here," he added, tapping his chest above his heart. "That's what they do. I was just completely _happy._ " He didn't acknowledge the physical side effects, because there was only so much he could tell the man. After all, he admitted, that was his father. Finn had been right about that division between them.

Burt collected himself with visible effort and asked very seriously, "Tell me the truth on this, too: did you want it?"

Determined to give Finn the fairest view possible as they were faced with the move, Kurt answered, "He was incredibly careful when everything started. He kept asking." For a while he'd thought it was too much caution, Kurt added to himself; more than once he'd whined for Finn to get on with it. "We formed, um, habits. He stopped asking as much by then, but most of the time it was fine. Can we stop talking about this now? I know I'd come right back from it, but I really don't want to see if it's possible to die of absolute humiliation."

Unfortunately Burt had zeroed in on one phrase there, and so the topic couldn't yet change. "Most of the time?" he repeated.

"It just... everything got twisted around. Things aren't perfect, but it's okay to move on from. I think." After being studied for a long time, Kurt began to squirm where he sat. He desperately hoped that they wouldn't get into _specifics_ of those moments in the basement. It really had been about his heart rather than anything sexual, but it was nearly impossible to explain the all-consuming feeling of the first concept. 'Finn brought me off in a endless fluttery cycle' was all too easy an idea to grasp.

"Okay," Burt said carefully. He was still obviously off-balance from the revelation of what they'd been doing, but at the same time Kurt could see countless stories behind his expression. He might be uncomfortable with it, but Kurt had so few claims to happiness that it was cruel to deny any of them. He might not understand how in the world they'd moved from a shouted argument last spring to doing _that_ , but they obviously had. It unsettled him greatly to know it had been going on inside a circle calling themselves family, but Kurt had no one else and wouldn't for a long time. Clearly the boys had some falling out between them, but they seemed willing to give it a shot. He had a hundred questions about that topic and didn't ask any of them.

Instead, after a few more weak 'okays,' Burt moved on to the second point he'd promised. "Well, then. I'll ask you... all that stuff you told Finn at the start?" The topics that Kurt had only shared with him when he was utterly broken, months in: torture, rape, death. He sounded so sad when he finished, "Why didn't you feel like you could talk to me about it?"

"I don't know," Kurt mumbled. One hand clutched the other wrist and rubbed loosely around it. "You're my dad."

"Would've thought that would put me first on the list," Burt said, clearly hurt but trying not to judge him for his actions. "I know Finn said that stuff about how we're not equals, and... and he's right about that. We never will be. I _am_ that guy who's always supposed to be there for you, and it just kills me to know you thought I wasn't."

"Please don't think about this too much and freak out, Dad," Kurt hesitantly began. "But when you heard what the wings, um, did? You stopped hugging me for a long time. I knew it was so you wouldn't accidentally touch them, because if you had and I'd... oh my God, it's too awful to even say out loud." Burt's shaky, apologetic smile confirmed both those intentions and his mutual horror at even imagined stimulation. In the same halting tones Kurt continued, "And you were probably more grateful than you've ever, ever been... to my rapist."

Pain tightened Burt's eyes and mouth.

"There were just some things that I could only talk about—and _do_ —with someone who wasn't my dad," Kurt finished quietly. "It could have been anyone," he began to say, picturing Mercedes or Tina or even Mike. But then he shook his head. "No. It couldn't have been. Because he was here for you during the summer while everyone else was a step removed. That's why I opened up, because Finn seemed to _get_ what this all meant. Until he didn't," he finished in a sigh. "But I want the good stuff back. A lot. So let's try."

"Okay," Burt finally said. He nodded once. "I really want this family to work. More than anything I want you to be happy and safe. It'd be great if those went hand-in-hand."

"Can you start a fire?" Kurt asked, risking a topic change when it felt like their conversation had reached its resolution. "There's something I want to burn."

Burt didn't question what that might be. Soon a small fire flickered below a mantle that would hold no more of their Christmas stockings. Their next Christmas would be in a guest house; the ones after that would come in a home that didn't yet exist. He didn't know how long it would be until there might be another Hummel family Christmas, for the world had to change before that name could return. That was all right, Kurt thought as he sent a blizzard of scribbled notes into the flames and the terrible hopes and dreams of his old life died in a blaze of light. One day Kurt Hummel would once again decorate and bake and wrap presents for Christmas, and he would be a far better person than the boy who'd first claimed the name.

Carole returned soon after that, promising she'd bought more boxes than they could possibly need. Both parents told Kurt not to bother coming out to the garage. He seldom stepped through that door, and for good reason. It wasn't simply that he couldn't drive any more; Kurt didn't even come out to help unload groceries. The narrow pathways between their large vehicles were difficult to navigate, and trying to do so while clutching flattened boxes would be pointlessly hard.

"Are you sure?" Carole asked once the boxes were relocated into the house and they were settled in the living room. "I'm fine with leaving," she promised both of them. "It sounds like the money is handled, and I'm not in love with my job. I'll figure out whatever it is I'll do out there in due time." Maybe she'd be the office manager for the new garage, or get a job down the road. There was a decently sized resort town within easy driving distance; maybe she'd find something there. Maybe, if and when those new children arrived, she'd focus on motherhood. Kurt had no idea, for all of them were clearly trying to find steady ground with each new step they took.

"Yeah," Kurt said after one last moment of thought. "I'm sure. I can't imagine he'll want to stick around after he graduates from... from whatever new school will be out there, but if Finn wants to come, Finn can come." He managed a small smile. "There are resorts nearby. He could learn to ski. Or snowboard. I'm sure that would keep him entertained."

"Or break his leg," Carole laughed.

"Well," Kurt shrugged, gesturing at his wrist and the veins running under it. Unlike the old pattern of blues and purples, like a river delta hidden by his skin, his blood vessels looked pale against the skin around them. Light waited to be spilled.

Laughter faded as Carole looked between the other members of her family. Her gaze was questioning, wary, and hopeful all at once. "Okay," she finally said. "I'll make sure he's really okay with it, and then... okay. We're moving. We're moving!"

The fire burned down while they waited. A few light snowflakes began to fall outside. Kurt stood at the window and watched them. From there, in that warm living room with a whole family, the winter looked quiet and cozy. He smiled faintly. Spring and summer would still be his time. Their land could have gardens, orchards, and hives. For months on end he wouldn't need a single bit of food that was carried home in a bag. But he'd work to find good things about winter.

"I had to wait until the end of practice," Finn said when he abruptly burst through the door in the middle of Kurt's contemplation. He realized everyone was there and said, "Kurt said it was okay. So are we moving?"

"We're moving," Carole confirmed. "So long as you really realize that you'll be saying goodbye to all your friends. Your team. It's a small town, Finn. There's not going to be much to do, not like you're used to. It's _hours_ to anywhere that you might call a real city, you don't know a thing about Idaho or Oregon... you're smiling at me."

"You're really trying to talk me out of this," he said with a grin. "It's not going to work."

"It's easier not to try at all," Kurt countered, turning from his place at the window, "than to try something and have it all fall apart."

"This won't," Finn said. "Promise."

 _Please don't let this fall apart,_ Kurt thought as he looked around the room. His recent life had made pessimism a default, and so it was all too soon that he felt a low, sick burn in his stomach of the certainty that he shouldn't have said yes. Finn would have a whole new school in which to establish himself; certainly he'd use Kurt for leverage. Finn would be bored and Kurt would be the easiest distraction. He _never_ should have said yes. "Well, ah," he said weakly, hoping to distract himself. "Okay. We need to plan what we're taking. And who's driving what. We should call, find out how much storage room there is so we know how much we _can_ take...."

He was good at caretaking and organization, and desperately wanted a distraction. Because of that Kurt soon found himself tackling the entire house with sweeping gestures and stated intentions. This would be packed, that would be left, that would be replaced. Get a truck rented for the biggest things, and they could load their personal cars and carry the rest.

Kurt opened the garage door and began to motion toward what had once been his car. It was on the far side of the space, though, and a different creature stared him down just feet from where he stood: his father's pickup. The sight took him by surprise, and because of that memories were able to slip in like a knife between his ribs.

A cold metal pickup bed. Indescribable pain. Being pinned to the truck as it jostled his broken body. Terror. That boy leaning over him, his erection growing by the moment as they prepared to—

"Kurt."

The soft, practiced voice brought him back to reality. Shaky breaths rattled out of Kurt's chest as an arm reached past him and shut the door. "Okay, you're here in the house. See?" Finn asked in the same tone he'd used for all the flashbacks he'd stopped.

Swallowing hard, Kurt nodded. Broken bones. Booted feet impacting him.

"What was it?" Finn asked carefully. "What made you...?"

"Pickup," Kurt finally managed to say. "They took me in one. That night." Thrown over the tailgate. More bones cracking when he landed. Dying. Dying. He was only holding on to awareness by his fingernails. Seeing that truck had been such a surprise; the flashbacks had all the warning of a meteor strike.

"Okay," Finn said, nodding slowly. "You wanna go take a shower?"

He'd been a mess of grit and his own vanishing blood as he lay sprawled on the snowy highway. Eyes shut tight, Kurt nodded. The hot water was a reliable comfort, if a small one, but he hated to fall back into those old patterns. He'd been doing so much better. He'd stopped worrying about losing track of the present. "But I don't want to be like this again," he whispered. Seeing shattered bone standing clear of his leg.

"You got through it the first time," Finn said encouragingly. "You'll get through this. You pretty much stopped flashing back to the old stuff, right? Go on, I'll check in a little while so you're not in too long."

He looked shakily at Finn and saw only concern in return. By that point Finn was well-practiced at dealing with his flashbacks; more than anyone else in the world. "Okay, thanks," Kurt finally said, feeling the icy grip of memory on his spine, and hurried past their confused and concerned parents on his way to the bathroom downstairs.

Cold sparked those flashbacks, as did the sight of trucks. A bad combination for moving to the mountains in winter and for someone whose family ran garages, Kurt thought darkly as he felt the hot water pound on his shoulders. He tried to lose himself in the rhythmic sweep of scrubbing but kept getting distracted by accidentally bashing into the sides of the narrow space. Big showers, he told himself as he tried not to think about those hands pinning him down. He'd fit into that new house.

Eventually he heard Finn's voice outside the door saying that it had been twenty minutes, and he needed Kurt to say something to prove that he wasn't zoned out in a little ball at the bottom of the tub. The request repeated and Kurt suddenly had the distinct feeling that if he didn't say something, then Finn would turn that knob and check for himself. "Yeah," he said, wiping water off his face and sluicing it out of his hair. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay. Come on out. Too much longer and you're into real freakout territory. When you start doing better after a shower you'd be finishing in... in about five minutes, okay? Think you can finish up by then?"

Kurt looked through the fogged translucent curtain at the bathroom exit. No matter what Finn had done wrong, it didn't change what he'd done right. He still knew what to look for to stop flashbacks, he knew Kurt's coping mechanisms, and he even apparently had a timeline for them. "Yeah, I'll be out," Kurt said.

"Okay. I've seen you lock up a few times when you got hit by cold air, so I'll pick out something warm and leave it."

Kurt shook his head ruefully as he worked conditioner into his hair. That time, at least, he'd manage to finish properly instead of leaving the shower as a complete wreck. If they could work through the bad, there was a lot of good that might grow. Eventually he turned off the water, dried his hair, and grabbed the fresh, warm sleeping clothes that Finn had slipped through the door. It was early to change into the outfit. He did so anyway.

"How're you doing?" Finn carefully asked when Kurt stepped free of the bathroom. "Hadn't seen you really freeze up for a while, but you said something when I called you. That's pretty good."

"I'm looking forward to having a bigger shower," Kurt finally decided on. He still felt wary, but he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be around this kind Finn who really could be caring in that 'quiet' he so desperately craved. "What did Dad and Carole say? I kind of made a fast exit."

"I said you were flashing back," Finn said. "Sorry if you didn't want that, but I figured that would keep them out of your hair while you zoned back in. And Burt still needs his truck, but they're going to figure out something so you don't have to see it until you're better. Okay?"

"Okay," Kurt mumbled. He'd been _better_. He hated himself for falling back into this behavior.

"You'll get through this," Finn said, apparently cluing in like he'd once done so easily. "Like I said, you got through the first round. You'll get better. Things'll get better. They just need time."

"Yeah," Kurt finally agreed, looking up from studying his feet to meet Finn's look of gentle concern. Once they would have stripped any remaining fear from his mind with waves of pleasure, and once Kurt wouldn't have been fearful to trust in Finn's good behavior lest it all vanish again. But Finn had a mental countdown for how long Kurt could shower before it was a warning sign, and he picked out clothes to ward off flashbacks that Kurt had just barely dodged. Things would get better. They just needed time.

"Come on," he eventually continued with a nod toward the stairs. "You need to look at the papers more, to figure out what you're going to take."

"Okay," Finn said after a long stretch of considering Kurt, clearly still worried he might become locked in another flashback. "Let's go see home."

  


* * *

Later that evening Finn was upstairs talking about their new home-to-be, but Kurt had departed the discussion. Finn's announcement that day gave him a chance to talk to everyone afterward. Kurt had to play catch-up. "Hey," he said softly into his phone.

"Hey," Mercedes said back. It was the first time they'd talked since he'd been taken from her. They'd texted to make sure the other was physically whole, but she'd left it up to him to push further. He hadn't been ready to do so, and then suddenly it was time to move two time zones away. "Is it really true?"

"Yeah. It was a big surprise. We got a house all of a sudden." He felt almost guilty for leaving. She'd wanted to touch his wings, see him fly, and be given a feather, even as he was uncomfortable with it. Now he was leaving entirely. Even if he saw some of those actions with a selfish label on them, it would be so hard to say goodbye. Their last night together would forever be a tragedy. "It's... it's amazing. Two hundred acres. It's near this tiny town in its own little valley. I look at it and I feel like...."

"Like you can be safe?" she finished just above a whisper.

"Yeah."

"Then that's really good. You should go there." He could hear her swallow down her emotions with a few deep, painful tries. "As soon as you can."

If you love something, Kurt thought mournfully, set it free. Or if you love someone. "You can come visit. You know that, right? Everyone can come visit. We're going to build our own house. We'll plan extra rooms. Okay?"

"Okay." She sniffled. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't cry. This is a good thing for you. Anything that will stop something like what happened... we're going to take them to court, hear me? No matter how bad their families get, no matter what the people at school say."

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. You go get 'em."

"Yeah. We will." She sniffled again. "Kurt? Can we stop by to say bye before you leave?"

"I don't know when we're leaving, exactly. But you could come over tomorrow?" Now he found himself sniffling, too. It was all so sudden, and even though he knew he needed that safe place for the future, he'd expected more time to say goodbye. It wasn't as if he'd met with people all that often. He could see them through texts and online, just as he had before. But there wouldn't be even the _possibility_ of Mercedes dropping by for movies, or of a surprise in-person group singalong.

"Okay. I'll tell everyone." She went silent for a little bit and Kurt could hear her blowing her nose. "You know this is a good thing, right? This is what you need. This... it's good. It's all good."

"You'll have to rent a car," he shakily began. "Or you can make plans for Finn to come pick you up. Because it's a long way to anywhere with regular flights. You'll have to fly into Spokane or Boise. And it's hours from them, still."

"I don't even know where they are," she half-laughed, half-cried. "But I will. And that's good that it's hours from everywhere. Right? It's good. You can be there for as long as you need and never worry. That's so good."

"As long as I need," Kurt agreed with a hint of sadness. Her hair might be grey by the time he could go anywhere he liked. Or she might be dead. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, then? Love you, Mercedes."

She tried to say that she loved him, too, but choked on her own words. They both laughed at the failure of her attempt and she, with what was probably supposed to be a kiss into the phone, hung up.

It was a good thing, Kurt thought as he swiped away one stray tear. It _was_. It had to happen. But yet again, there had to be that moment of pain before things could begin to heal.

Kurt pictured everyone stopping by the next day and smiled mournfully. His knees pulled toward his chin as he sat there on his bed. He pictured them decades out, with different hairstyles and sagging skin and family snapshots in their phones, and wondered if the reality would hurt as much as his imagination. But unless he changed his mind, that future Artie would be walking. That was something. That would be some tiny change he'd actually managed to make to the world when all his other plans died in sputtering gasps.

Maybe one of them would name a son after him, he thought as he rested his chin on his knees. That Kurt could go anywhere he wanted. He could have a family of his own. He could have a library card.

Somehow Kurt found himself looking at a map of the entire globe on his computer. Anywhere he wanted, he repeated to himself as he looked at place names that had once enthralled him. Now he looked at Manhattan, London, and Paris and saw them not as shining beacons of opportunity, but as some of the largest concentrations of wealth in the world. That meant slavery. People like him were fading by the day in those cities, and he was going to go hide in a mountain paradise.

"Hey," Burt softly said, drawing Kurt's attention. "How you doing down here?"

"I talked to Mercedes. She's going to bring people over tomorrow, to say goodbye." They'd leap ahead in years the next time he saw any of them. Thinking about him would have become less of a habit.

"Well, that's good," Burt said. "I think you need some closure. To, you know, heal up with everything. I was real worried when you ran off like that earlier, until Finn told us what happened." He risked taking a few steps closer and Kurt glanced at him with a wan smile. "What're you thinking about? You've got one of those serious looks on your face, and I thought you'd be, you know... happy. We're about to head off to where you want."

"Yeah," Kurt said. Where _he_ wanted, while the richest parts of the world kept showing off their shackles. He'd leave behind Tina and her plans for what he was supposed to do. It wouldn't be any easier to be that spokesperson while hidden in the Rockies; in fact, he'd basically committed himself to being a hermit who simply waited for the world to change around him. "Dad? What happens when the laws change? When collars are outlawed? When trying to enslave someone is seen for what it is?"

"Well, that's...." Burt trailed off and scratched his head. "I suppose that's up to you. You'll finally get a chance to live the life you want, right?"

"Not me," Kurt said softly as he stared at the map on his computer screen. It was zoomed out all the way. The entire globe spanned his vision. He doubted he would take off his collar until laws were in place in almost every nation, or he would risk being captured and taken to a place where he could still be owned. Eventually, though, it would come off.

So would everyone else's. Thousands of victims who would not have spent the interim years with loving family.

"I mean, I'm not worried about me, Dad," he clarified when he saw the confusion there. "I'll have a home. I'll have my _name._ What are they all going to do?" he asked, heart growing heavier with each moment he considered the problem. Abducted as adolescents, their social development would have been stunted even without the abuse for which they were sold. Some families, aged but intact, would be able to take in their long-lost children, but many others would be gone entirely. Depending on how the laws fell out, they might not have paperwork to let them work or be any nation's citizens. Even if countries did grant amnesty, they wouldn't have any marketable skills.

Except one, Kurt realized with a wave of nausea, and answered his own question. "I know what they're going to do." He turned to Burt, teary-eyed. "Sex, Dad. That's the only way they'll be able to feed themselves, find shelter... it's all they'll know anything about. They'll have to sell themselves even if they don't remember their real names."

Sighing, Burt sat next to him and put his arm around Kurt. "There'll be time to worry about that in the future, I guess. Just... just look at it this way. When that's something to be concerned about, then it means freedom's coming, right? That's a good thing." The words didn't comfort Kurt like they should have, and Burt squeezed Kurt's shoulder. "I know you think you need to be doing more, but you'll do enough, whatever it is that you find. You don't need to take responsibility for fixing everyone."

"No," Kurt said softly, staring somewhere far past his walls. "Not everyone."

After all, some would go back to their families. Not all that many would find their way to North America. But some would.

They would need someone to trust and somewhere safe to stay. Somewhere quiet, without crowds of people taking advantage of the confusion of their changed lives. Somewhere they couldn't be hurt while they remembered who they'd once been.

"Dad," Kurt said slowly, "do you think we could plan on buying up even more land when it goes up for sale? I know we don't have the money now, but it'll be over a long time."

"What?" Burt asked, and then his expression dropped with the realization. "Kurt...."

" _This_ is what I can do," Kurt said. He turned to him, finally focused his eyes on something other than a hollow imagined future, and smiled.

He _could_ write, just not about endless tales of his own suffering. He could write letters and stories to potential rich donors, convincing them that what he said was true. He could invite those _few_ people, not the entire world, to meet him and be convinced. Hell, he could put on a concert for them if it got them to open their checkbooks.

He could use tools and follow instructions. Give him the land and enough time, and there could be homes for the Angels who would need them. They would be small and plain, nothing compared to the mansions they'd left, but they would be safe. They would be theirs.

He could take care of people. He could exhaust himself for a good cause.

Kurt couldn't do what Tina wanted of him. He couldn't let his identity be reduced to catchphrases and he couldn't be an object on which people draped their regrets.

But making a sanctuary, a _home_ for the people who would one day need it... he could do that.

"Kurt," Burt said, like he wasn't even sure if he should be saying a warning or not.

"It could have been me, Dad. Eleven years old. Taken from you, never seeing you again, and thrown to the sidewalk a hundred years later not able to do anything but sell myself." That seemed to break any resistance he had, and Burt sighed and rested his head against Kurt's. After a few breaths Kurt continued, "After the collars come off, you could move away. This doesn't have to be on your shoulders."

"You think I'm leaving you alone to deal with that?" Burt snorted. "How many places are we talking about building, here? No way you could keep up with maintaining everything, let alone helping out those kids who'll need it." He seemed to process his words and said sadly, "Kids. That old, and... they'll really still just be kids. This isn't _right._ "

"It's not," Kurt confirmed, then turned pointedly to the stairs.

Burt realized what he meant, grinned a little, and shrugged. "They're already in it this far. Come on, let's go talk to them."

Smiling, Kurt followed him up the stairs. The number of times he would make that trip was reaching its end, now. "Hi, um," he began when he saw Finn and Carole looking at the information about their new home. "I had an idea. For what I want to do." He, swallowing, repeated what he'd said about that time when thousands of slaves would be discarded and left as unwilling sex workers. He explained how they would need somewhere safe to go, with someone they could trust. They might not be able to trust almost the entire world after what they'd gone through, but they'd be able to trust him at a glance. They wouldn't stay there forever. They'd have a quiet, safe place to heal, and then they'd finally live the lives that had been stolen from them. "So that's my idea," Kurt finally finished, swallowing again.

Carole, though smiling, looked overwhelmed. "That's quite a goal, there."

"I know," he said somewhat nervously. Burt, though clearly proud at the scope for which Kurt reached, couldn't help but nod. "But it'll probably take..." Kurt sighed. "This probably won't be for decades out, still. And I told Dad that I _completely_ understand if you both want to leave once the collar is off, so you don't have to deal with all of this."

"And leave behind all those kids who need help?" Carole asked, sounding almost offended. "Well, there's just no way that would ever happen." She mouthed one word again, turned to Burt, and said helplessly, "We are going to have _so many_ kids."

He laughed.

Kurt, feeling relieved, turned once more. He didn't know if that refuge plan would work, but at least it wasn't laughed out of the room to start with. A quiet home, cradled in a beautiful faraway valley like some fairytale kingdom... he could believe that, if anywhere, his crazy dream could work where they were headed. He could believe that the people around him cared enough about that suffering to try to help, and had enough kindness to serve as safe harbors. "You can leave," he said to Finn. "When you graduate high school, you can leave."

Finn smiled lopsidedly. "Maybe I will. But, you know... that's a good idea." His warm brown eyes were those of the boy from summer. They held apology for the time in-between. "Kinda sounds like something that matters."


	17. Chapter 17

Many half-filled boxes already lay scattered through the house. More would come. It was amazing how quickly the shelves and counters began to look empty, even though they were leaving more than they packed. Only a few pieces of furniture from Kurt's room would be loaded into a truck, as he was abandoning his bed, desk, and other bits that had replacements in the furnished guesthouse. But he had claimed his mother's old dresser, which ate up much of his time that evening.

"I think it looks safe," Finn said, walking up behind him.

Kurt looked uncertainly at the towel-and-jacket padding he'd bound to its edges. "It's old," he fretted. "The road might be bumpy. I know I'm just worrying. It's just that... this sounds terrible, but you can take your dad." Hopefully they would pack that urn with similar care. "This is all I can take of my mom."

"It's weird," Finn said, staring at that dresser. "But you've lived longer without her than you did with her. And I never knew my dad." His brow wrinkled. "We'll hit a time when it's been longer since the wedding than it was before."

"Finally looking ahead more than a year or two, huh?" Kurt asked. "Welcome to my world."

Carole had quit her job via voice mail. Burt would go into the garage the next day and tell them that the sale to the employees would go through as planned, but they'd be taking over operations sooner than expected. He'd secured a rental truck and hoped to draw one of those employees into driving it two thousand miles at a moment's notice. The guesthouse waited, stocked and empty. Loans and gifts would cover their expenses while the last dust of Lima settled.

They were ready.

"What if they have more kids?" Finn wondered as he started packing kitchen equipment. "That'd be weird, too. Like, actual people made out of my mom and your dad."

"You called him your dad before," Kurt pointed out. "You said he was yours too, now."

Finn's hands hesitated as he worked. "Yeah. And you told me not to."

Kurt's fingertips traced the few exposed lines of the dresser. There was nothing more to be done with it. It would either make the trip or not, the same as the other elements of the house that had migrated to its central spaces. "Why'd you do it, Finn? Why did you...." His eyes closed. "You were amazing. You were _safe._ And then I couldn't trust you to listen for whether I was saying 'no.' All so you could be popular?"

"I didn't...." Either that really wasn’t he'd done, or it wasn't his real motivation, or... Finn didn't seem to know what he was arguing.

"Why?" Kurt softly repeated.

"It was when you showed me your blood. And the wings. All of that was just...." Finn struggled for the right word. He'd already called such things 'beautiful,' but he seemed to want more. "Huge. And then you saved my life. No one else could have, but you did. You ripped your hand apart and were just like, not today, death!" Looking sheepish, Finn's gaze kept dropping lower as he explained himself. "What you were doing was so much bigger than me. It felt like I needed to be bigger, too."

"Please don't. If you're going to be like that, then please plan to leave when you graduate. Or just stay here with Puck." The truth ached as he finally let it free. "Because I would be around that Finn from summer forever. As a brother, confidante... hero," he finished with a slight shrug. "He was someone important to me. When you tried to be bigger, all you did was make me feel like I wasn't important at all. And not even as me, just as a thing. And I don't want to be around that Finn."

"I'm really sorry," Finn said, finally meeting his eyes again.

"What do you think when you look at me?" Kurt asked, even as he hated himself for it.

"That no one is gonna do what those guys did to you, ever again," Finn said in an instant.

"I don't mean like that," Kurt quietly replied. He was aware of the steady thudding of his heart. He could imagine golden blood pumping through it. Until his body finally settled, each heartbeat changed him some tiny bit more.

"Oh." Their shared gaze broke off again. Finn sounded ashamed, like he wished he could give an easier answer. "I don't know."

Kurt studied his feet.

"I could lie," Finn mumbled. "But it's just... I'm sorry. Some people just... I don't know what it is. Some of us see, um. People like you. And it's just different." It was like the crudest lines of the groups' old discussions floated back into Finn's memory, and he grimaced in apology. They both clearly remembered Puck's well-publicized take on his attraction. He wasn't all the way _there_ , Kurt could see, but there was still a big, confusing filter over everything that he couldn't yet ignore. "It was always like that for me with people like you." He swallowed and risked adding, "I know it was for you, too."

Kurt shifted his weight uncomfortably. He didn't like hearing it, but that was true. Every Angel in his shredded Big Dream Book Of Slavery would have been labeled 'it.' It would have been natural to buy someone (something) born male, but more entertaining clothing options were available in female designs. They'd make for a much more striking visual behind him in photographs. He hadn't made up his mind as to which way was better.

Either way, his plans for private moments after were the same. Moments with _it._

"Fair enough," Kurt finally replied. "But there's that problem again: I did that because I didn't think they were people."

"I do," Finn promised. "I just... it's all complicated." He smiled apologetically. "Big and important and confusing. I'm still trying."

Kurt crossed his arms across his chest. He truly wished he could be sure about that. Finn seemed sincere, but he knew from his own heart what blinders he'd had on to consider Angels once called 'she' as sexually attractive. If that were how Finn saw him....

"I have an idea," Finn slowly said. "One that's definitely about you as a person." His wavering smile managed to stay in place, just barely. "I'm trying. You said okay, so let's work things out. I know this is complicated, but we made this family official a month ago, right? Let's make it real."

Uncertain, Kurt nodded. Finn walked off in search of Burt and Carole and explained what he would like to do before they left. They would head outside, he said, but it was dark. No one would see. It might be a strange request, but it was the last opportunity they had and he thought Kurt might appreciate it. Burt, too.

That was how they wound up parked in an empty cemetery lot, trusting Burt to lead the way in the darkness.

Older, well-worn grave markers filled the early leg of their journey. People laid to rest in 1890 or 1934 had markers topped with solemn winged figures. No one sold concrete angels to mourning families any more. They weren't in stained glass windows or on greeting cards. Churches tried to hold onto the term for their own, but knew they couldn't fight actual imagery.

Wings were for fetish clubs, expensive undergarments, and slaves.

It wasn't what any mother would hope her child would face.

"Hi, Mom," Kurt said as he knelt down before her grave. He'd never actually talked to that plot of land before. He supposed now would be the time, if any. Snow's chill seeped through his jeans and soon made his knees go numb. He could see his breath in the air. It was cold. Too cold. Burt, Carole, and Finn had all stepped away to watch the paths so no one would surprise him, and he felt suddenly fragile in that isolation.

"Here," he heard when he'd sat there staring at her marker, trying to hold onto the world. Kurt, snapping back to the present, looked up and saw Finn holding out his own jacket. He gestured that Kurt should put it on backwards and hopefully he'd stay warm enough to make it through that talk.

"Thanks," Kurt said softly, pulling it on over his more form-fitting coat. It was awkward wearing it like that, but the larger size and Finn's lingering body heat worked well to fight off the threatening cold. Steeling himself as Finn's footsteps crunched away on the snow, Kurt tried his speech again. "Hi, Mom. I'm moving away. I know you probably thought I would. Hoped I would." His eyes grew sad and soft. He'd been different for a long time. "I really never fit here."

Everything was silent, of course. He knew he wasn't really saying goodbye to her. This was a farewell to a life he'd once held. It would be so comforting if he could believe she were waiting in some cloud-lined paradise, but nothing about that idea resonated in his heart. They had their time on earth. Hers had ended too quickly, as had his old life, and there was no getting anything back. He could only look forward.

 _Imagine there's no heaven..._

"I don't know if you'd be happy about this or not," he finally continued. "But Dad got married again. It's been a long time. I think he was lonely and Carole's really nice. And she's nice to me, too. I'm going to be with her for a long time, because of... of everything. It's important that she's a good person, and she really is. She has a son. So I have a brother now. It's complicated. But when it's good, it's been amazing. I took their last name for... for a while. That's complicated, too."

Snowflakes began to drift down upon him. It made him feel like there was no one else in the world. "I'm going to try to take care of people like me when they're set free. They'll need someone. Maybe it can be me. I hope so. I'll try."

His body surprised him by flicking out its wings, sending free the snow that had begun to cling to them. He swallowed. It wasn't that the instinctive motion was bad, but it was just that: instinctive. Something else that happened to him, rather than something he chose. "I'm scared," he admitted in a whisper. "I'm scared it'll be too much for me to handle. And I'm also scared that it'll take so long for the world to change. I'm scared I'll be alone but scared to let people in. Is it weird that I can be so scared and so excited, too?"

He remembered standing by that grave when it was a fresh gash in the green, vibrant ground. Now snow collected in the hollows of his mother's name; he brushed it free. "I need to say goodbye now, Mom. I have to go. I'll always love you, but I have to go." He smiled sadly at the marker and the small 'Beloved Mother' his fingers had traced. In his mind he pictured that mother holding her small, human son with his distinct dreams already formed. Everything in that picture had died.

His dreams were replaced. His family had changed. And when he died, he woke up. It was time to move on to that new life.

"I love you," he said, kissing his fingertips and then pressing them to the tombstone. "And some day I'll be me again. I'll see you then." He stood, almost losing his balance on his numb knees, but felt wings stretch out wide to balance him. They fluttered again to clear off snow and then pulled back close and warm.

"Thanks," Kurt said to Finn when he shucked that jacket and offered it back to him. "That helped."

As Finn dusted off his snowy shoulders and pulled his jacket back on, he smiled. "Thought it might." From their more distant sentry points, their parents saw them talking and began to return. "Come on. Let's go pack and get out of the cold."

While Burt remained to say a farewell of his own and a promise to look after their son, Carole began to walk toward the parking lot. Kurt took a first few steps in that direction as snowflakes clung to his eyelashes. He saw Finn's hand raise and then hesitate, like he was suddenly aware of the motion he'd initiated. After a moment he began to lower his arm and pretended like he'd never made a move in the first place.

"It's okay," Kurt said softly. Some things wouldn't be, not for some time if ever, but that was okay.

Finn waited a few steps to see if he really seemed to mean it. Convinced, he raised his arm again and very carefully slung it across Kurt's shoulders. It was warm, heavy, and... and it was comforting. "Thanks."

"You too."

  


* * *

That night the house audibly settled as the mercury fell further below freezing. They were familiar sounds learned over years of telling himself that all his isolation was by choice. Kurt's fingers clutched the sheets of his bed as he wondered why, ready to move to a place where he could be safer (not safe) and freer (not free), his heart ached over what would be one of his very last nights in that basement.

It felt so wrong to be below ground. He'd hidden there in fear for his life. Hunters' dogs had burst through the door.

But it belonged to Kurt Hummel.

"I was so happy when Burt called," he heard Finn say into the darkness. Kurt turned his head toward that sound as Finn continued, "When he said you were back. I never would have hoped for it. Who would?"

"Yeah," Kurt said. It was impossible. So was he, though. Death was the end, some injuries were too terrible to surmount, and flight was a dream only achieved when wrapped in metal and powered by screaming engines. "That doesn't happen."

"Do you think one day—way, way far out in the future—this could be a good thing?" When Kurt stayed silent Finn hurriedly explained, "You can do amazing things, now. You just have to hide them. Do you think one day they might actually be _good_? Something you could be happy about?"

He could hear Finn's first description of the wings: if he ignored everything else, they were so cool. "I don't know. That'd be nice, I guess." Carole had said that everything that happened to him wasn't bad, it was just that others made it so. His own father had pointed out that once the collar came off, his lighter, agile form would be so free. Never faced with ill health or old age... and maybe some day, when he was really ready, he'd be able to die. "Finn?" he ventured. "Why are you really doing this? Why are you coming?"

He didn't know what he could hear that would truly put his worries to rest. Finn had already told him several truths: he thought he was the best person to help. He wanted to do something that mattered. The idea of building that sanctuary seemed important. Kurt needed more than two parents and a lonely mountainside. They were all very nice thoughts, but Kurt knew how terrible a person he'd been before his change. He'd confronted that. He hadn't piled platitudes on that shaky foundation.

It stayed silent enough that Kurt wondered if Finn had drifted off, but he eventually heard, "I've done bad things. To a lot of people. I screwed up on being a boyfriend, I'd blow off chores at home. I picked football over something I really liked and that people needed me for because I wanted to...." Another long stretch of silence preceded him finishing with, "To be popular. And I spent a lot of years hurting people who hadn't done anything wrong, because I thought that's who I was supposed to be."

Kurt didn't say anything.

"I thought I was a good guy because I hurt... those people a little less than my friends did. And then this summer happened and I learned there was an actual good guy there when I stopped caring about what other people thought of me. It's like... I know I screwed up after that?" Finn mumbled. "But when I _can_ do that stuff right, it's like I've found everything about myself that does matter. And I can take all that other stuff holding me down and just... throw it away. Ignore it. I want to keep doing that. Are you still awake?"

"Yeah," Kurt said softly. He didn't know how much of what Finn had said was new, but it was phrased just right to remind him of his own journey. It sounded sincere. They could figure out how to ignore the worst parts of the world together. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Night. We have a busy day packing tomorrow."

Finn's voice had the hint of a smile to it when he finished their verbal tennis match. "Okay."

  


* * *

When Burt drove the rented truck up to the driveway the next afternoon, Kurt wanted to tell him to take it back. He wanted to leave for that town where a student body hadn't grown up thinking he was their punching bag, but loading that truck would be it. His childhood was over. He was leaving it behind to reach for something bigger. It was like being dropped off at college a thousand times over.

The pickup sat at the far side of the street, too distant to trigger any memories. Its bed was packed full of heavy boxes to steady the back axle. A blue tarp covered the load. What seemed like a lifetime ago, Kurt had ridden under that tarp when he made his first journey home.

"There are no reporters," he said idly as he stood at the edge of the garage. His arms were wrapped around himself; it was still chilly, but at least there was little wind. "You'd think they'd come by when they saw us getting ready to move." The town still wanted to know if charges would ever be pressed, had some sort of sick fascination with learning the precise extent of Kurt's injuries, and were naturally interested in every possible sighting of an Angel.

Burt smiled a bit as he arranged a packing blanket over the top of the dresser Kurt had so carefully padded. "National stations called for permission to use images from around here. I told them no, and so then I saw they couldn't show anything if I didn't approve it. That got me talking to our lawyers again, to see how much trouble the local stations would get in if I went after them for showing you like they did."

"A lot?" Kurt guessed.

"I talked to 'em," Burt said bluntly. "And basically, I got to pick between them staying away from our entire family in fear of a lawsuit, or being named the owner of every station that showed up that night." He snorted. "They screwed up big time. Hate what the laws say, but now and then they work in our favor."

"Good," Kurt said idly, moving forward to adjust that blanket until he felt comfortable with its placement.

"Hey," Burt said to someone. Kurt turned and saw him talking to their neighbor Gary, who'd come out to watch the process of loading the truck. "We're heading out tomorrow morning. It might take a little while for the people to handle putting everything up for sale and clearing things out... you mind keeping an eye on the place? Shoveling the driveway so it looks lived-in, that sort of thing. Should keep away vandals in the meantime."

"Sure. Not a problem. Good luck out there," he said, looking a little overwhelmed by being in the presence of that family who'd served as such a whirlwind of activity in their small town. "Hey, uh... can I ask you something?"

Burt nodded.

"Where're you headed?"

"Little town in the mountains," Burt said neutrally; there were no mentions of celebrity ranches or ski resorts to serve as a geographical anchor. No one could be trusted wholeheartedly, not even a lifetime's neighbor. "It's good. Lots of space."

"Sounds nice," he nodded. "Lots of space, huh? You, uh... weird question. You need a dog?"

Burt blinked, then looked at Kurt like he wanted to verify that he'd heard him correctly.

Gary continued, "I never should've gotten a breed this big. And we've seen how he acts around Kurt. Whatever's inside that thick skull, all it can focus on is your boy." He chuckled. "And we both know why I had to repair my gate, right?"

"Because he tried to protect him, yeah," Burt said slowly. "Well, uh...."

"Can give you a fifty-pound bag of food to take. He's just... I don't know what I was thinking, buying a watchdog that big when I'm home all the time and don't have the yard for him. He'd be happier out there with space, able to really do something."

Kurt nodded faintly. He wasn't safe yet, he was only safer. Anything that helped was good. "Yeah. That would be nice. Dad, can we?"

Burt looked at him in good-natured disbelief. "You want a dog. A _huge_ dog? That'll shed and slobber? That you've been scared of for years?"

Grumbling a little at the reveal of his long-standing fear in front of their neighbor, Kurt nodded again. He wasn't afraid any more. "Carole's driving the pickup, right? He could ride in the cab with her."

"Oh, she'll love that," Burt said dryly.

"You saw how he was with me," Kurt said just as dryly. "She'd have a _dog_ with her; I would be locked in an enclosed space with some sort of squirming oversized puppy."

"Guess we're tracking down hotels along the way that allow animals," Burt said, shrugging and smiling. "Yeah, thanks. We'll take him."

"What's he called, anyway?" Kurt asked, flashing back to his labels of Fred Phelps and Satan. They seemed entirely inappropriate for a creature that now stared adoringly at Kurt like he'd willingly lay down his life a thousand times over.

"Should've seen what a monster of a puppy he was," Gary chuckled. "His name is Hercules."

"Oh," Kurt said and fought back a short laugh. "Good name."

As their neighbor went to gather his pet's supplies, Burt moved near Kurt. "You seriously want a dog? I know we'll have the space, and I've gotta say I like the idea of having a watchdog around you, but... you've never really been much of an animal person, you know?"

"People change," Kurt said lightly. He'd have dogs. Cats. Bees. Whatever animals he discovered in the woods. He couldn't stop smiling.

"Well, okay." Taking in that expression, Burt had to fight back his own growing smile. "Hercules. You're thinking of the cartoon, aren't you?"

Kurt rubbed the animal's floppy ear and wondered what else might view him with a perspective of trust and love. Maybe he'd find more benefits like that, even tiny ones, day by day. "One hundred percent."

  


* * *

His friends showed up just after school's end. Hercules planted himself in front of Kurt like a wall until he was assured that they were safe. Only then did the massive beast step aside and allow them inside and Finn to take him to the back yard. "We skipped practice," Rachel said with tears in her eyes. "Mr. Schue had to stay and lead everyone else, with the competition this weekend, but our group... we skipped."

Tears beaded in most eyes, and not just directed at Kurt. He remembered then that it wasn't only him leaving. No one seemed to judge their decision, though. They accepted it, even if it made them sad, and only had wishes for them to be happy in their new home.

Finn made a circuit through everyone in a different order than Kurt. They both had their goodbyes to say, and from the pain on Finn's face Kurt realized that the moment was far more painful than he'd anticipated for the other boy. Kurt had been so wrapped up in his need to break free that he'd forgotten what a very real sacrifice Finn was making. It was hard to turn away from the sight of Finn and Brittany comparing 'O-hi-o' to 'I-da-ho' and agreeing that he would probably mess up a bunch of times.

But he did turn, because he had to talk to the girl in front of him. "You're stealing my man," Santana smirked. She tilted her head to the side and added, "Might have to kick that surprisingly perky little ass."

He considered that, then reached out to thread his fingers through hers. She looked uncomfortable and tried to pull away but Kurt held firm. "You could be better than you give yourself credit for," he murmured.

"Stop," she began to protest, but he only latched on more tightly.

"You don't have to date someone you don't care about to be popular. You don't have to pose with me as a prize."

"Seriously, stop," she murmured, looking embarrassed at his sincerity.

"Santana, you stood in front of that entire school and said I was a person. That it would be rape. That we're people." Kurt's eyes went glossy again. "I don't think you realize how few people in the world would do that."

"It wasn't a big deal," she said uncomfortably.

"It was. It was to me. Please just remember that moment, all right? How you didn't even think before you corrected Quinn. How you argued with Jacob over it." He saw her beginning to panic at the emotional moment between them and let her go, but repeated, "It was to me."

"Well, you know," she said awkwardly, her typically easy insults not flowing. "Like I care what you think. Maybe now I need to go grab that new quarterback, see if—"

"Santana," Kurt said, soft but intent. He could _hear_ her lying to herself. "You did a lot of things that hurt me. You could be that person again. Or you could be better, and focus on what you really care about."

She didn't commit to it. They didn't have that relationship. But she met his eyes for longer than she was comfortable, and she looked thoughtful when she finally turned away. "Whatever. Drive safe. I guess."

"Thanks," Kurt said wryly. Maybe it was too much to hope for that she'd give better speeches than tearing down others, or that she'd stop grabbing for the nearest source of power to instead figure out what she really wanted in the world. But people needed time to heal.

"I'm sorry I told them where you were," she said just above a whisper, almost too softly for him to hear, and then she was back at Brittany's side. Kurt might have imagined it. He hoped not.

"Here," Artie said, handing over several discs as he rolled up. "That crazy nice car has a DVD player, I remembered, so... you can pretend you're in the theatre. Got some leaked stuff early, too. Don't ask me how. I'm living outside the law."

"Artie," Kurt said, so touched that he'd remembered that plan from weeks back. "Thank you." His eyes lit up at the top title and he had to fight back a laugh. He didn't know how much those celebrities cared to talk to him in person, but maybe one day he could tell J.K. Rowling herself what he'd thought of the film adaptations. Putting aside Deathly Hallows he saw Burlesque, Tangled... at the bottom were DVDs of all the big movies he'd missed that summer, whether commercially released yet or not. "Seriously, thank you."

"Yeah, well," Artie laughed, shrugging. His voice dropped to a whisper. One hand clutched his chair tightly. "Least I can do for the guy who's gonna... you know. Right?"

Kurt knelt down and took Artie's other hand in his, even though it made it obvious the two of them were discussing something major. "Just give me a call," he said softly. "And then come on by whenever you want."

"When it's safe for you," Artie replied. "Don't worry about me. I'm happy in the meantime."

Squeezing his hand, Kurt stood again and promised him that he _would_ make that visit. Tina claimed him next. "I'm so glad you found somewhere," she said, and then ventured a slow hug that only gained enthusiasm when he proved willing to hug her back. "You need to do what's safe for you, right?"

Hesitating, Kurt decided in one moment not to tell his plans for the future. Not yet, not when they were still quick to react and speak with the passions of youth. He felt like he'd been hammered and refined into someone far older than his years. That adult behind a boy's face would stay in touch with these friends, hopefully. And the strong, glorious men and women they became would hear about his work. Maybe they'd help then. "I'm doing something safe," he agreed. "And I have plans. Don't worry."

"I have plans too," Tina said. Her eyes glistened. "It doesn't matter if things went wrong here. For at least a few days people looked at those signs and those feathers and they thought about it. They thought about how it could be _anyone._ So what if McKinley blew up on us? We have Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr and... and a whole _world_ to try." She sounded like a general finding a new plan of attack; she'd lost one battle but would win the war.

"You are going to change hearts and minds," he promised her.

"I totally am," she said. "I'll rock this."

Brittany and Mike were all hugs and well-wishes. Both insisted that Kurt set up a webcam, because Mike had mentioned how well he could still move with those wings on his back. They were going to test that, just wait and see. Puck smiled awkwardly when it was his turn; neither of them knew where they were together.

"Thanks," Kurt decided on. "For wanting to help me this summer. For telling me the truth about what was going on at school." His smile grew. "For being my first video game friend, strangely enough."

Puck smirked. "We're gonna hold you to a schedule, you know. Gotta start earning more points with our band. And I'll tell Finn to show you Call of Duty."

He didn't know what that was. "Will I like that?" Kurt asked.

"No. It'll be hilarious."

They both laughed and Puck presented his hand in a fist. "Come on," he indicated after Kurt only looked at it, and bumped it forward an inch. Cluing in, Kurt held up his fist and lightly impacted Puck's. "Okay, go trap wolverines or whatever."

Kurt sent an amused look to Artie, who grinned and shrugged back. Their video game band wouldn't last forever; it would probably only be a few years before the boys moving forward in time found new, pressing responsibilities. It would help soften the blow, though. And by that time, Kurt would hopefully be busy with responsibilities of his own.

Though Kurt had expected to leave Mercedes for last, Finn's arms were securely wrapped around Rachel when he turned to talk to her. The two were locked tightly together, like not even air could come between them, and Kurt knew it wasn't the time. "Hey, you," he said to Mercedes when he approached her. "Saved the best for almost-last."

"Yeah you did," she said back with a smile, but it wavered quickly. He could still see her injuries from that terrible night; it made his heart ache. He wished he could safely heal her, but everyone would want to know where the cut on her lip had gone. "I'm gonna miss you so bad, Kurt," Mercedes almost whimpered. "I know you have to go, I know you _have_ to... but do you _really_ have to?" she finished, laughing sadly at her own words.

"People might still come up to our house," Kurt admitted. "But it's so much less likely for 'that new, strange family with an Angel' than for 'that boy who's spent years taking bruises, and look: now he's got wings.'" As with Tina, he didn't mention his sanctuary plans. There would be time in the future for those people who proved themselves willing to help, and he expected great things from Mercedes Jones.

He took her hands in his. "I mean it, you know: you have to visit. We'll have a room. You can come out to see me and Finn. And get lots of fresh air and sunshine," he added impulsively, because in his mind that new home had summers with endless sunlight interrupted only by cloudless starry nights. Well, there had to be _some_ rain, he supposed, but it would appear only exactly long enough to water gardens and orchards.

"I hate fresh air and sunshine," she giggled, then wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face against Kurt's shoulder. "But I love you."

"I love you, too. You're going to be so amazing, do you hear me? I don't care if you're making laws or selling platinum albums full of message songs, I know you'll do something amazing. Because you are Mercedes Jones," he added and kissed her forehead.

"Kurt Hummel will do something amazing, too," she mumbled against him.

"Hudson."

"Right. Finn told us, I just... I forgot. It's hard to get used to." She pulled back, forced a smile, and said, "Finn also told us how you have to ride in that car, and how you don't get to look out the windows unless you hold yourself up. So I thought I could grab my beanbag chair. Then you could lay up on it if you wanted." It was a good idea and he thanked her for it, and they went together to the front door. She soon came back with her gift in hand and Kurt placed it by the garage exit. He pressed his face against the soft corduroy before he set it down; it smelled like her room.

Rachel was waiting for him when he returned to the group. Finn had almost everyone else clustered around him, and after one last look Mercedes joined them. "I'm sorry it took me so long to talk to you," she said, looking ashamed. "I don't have an excuse."

"You were busy with Finn," Kurt lightly deflected, but of course they knew she didn't mean the farewells happening on that single afternoon. "No, I know. And I understand. I would have done the same thing."

"Why were we like that, Kurt?" Rachel asked. "What was wrong with us?"

"It was the entire world pressing down on our shoulders," he said. "Greed, envy, pride, all of it. That's what we were _trained_ to want, but we learned to throw it off." He bent down a little, the better to meet her eyes, and continued, "You're still a star. You are _terrifying_ in all the best ways, and no matter what you do you'll get what you want."

"I don't want to be a star," she quickly said. "Not any more."

"We... I don't know if Finn told you this, but we got our new home from celebrities," Kurt quietly pointed out. "You could do that. There are celebrities doing good. Please don't tell anyone, because this needs to stay a secret, but just think of all the money you could make. Think of all the good you could do with it."

Rachel smiled sadly. "Those celebrities still go to work every day surrounded by other people who think slave ownership is something to aspire to. They live a lie so they can make all that money. They bite their tongues." Looking only a little ashamed, she continued, "Biting my tongue has never been my strong suit."

That made him laugh as he pictured a rant on set about the moral bankruptcy of her director, when Rachel Berry could simply no longer stand the injustice. "Fair enough. I hear you've been doing some legal reading."

"A bit," she admitted. A real smile found its way back onto her face. "There are famous lawyers, you know. Very well respected. Some of them even make their way onto television."

"Something to strive for," Kurt agreed. "But please tell me that while you're doing that and changing the world... that you'll keep singing."

"Will you?" she asked, raising one eyebrow pointedly.

He thought back to pictures of grassy green hills and snow-capped mountains. Of pine trees and open skies, and The Sound Of Music. "It's a deal," Kurt said, extending his hand. When she shook it, Rachel took a long time to let go.

"Kurt?" she asked when they'd finally broken apart. "Can we... never mind, I'm sorry. I shouldn't."

"What?" he asked curiously.

"Mercedes and I were saying... it's... never mind."

"What?"

She bit at her lip, shrugged under her gloriously unstylish sweater, and whispered like she might get caught at something wrong, "You can say no if you want to, but... but could we see you fly?"

The neighbors would see. Let them look. "Come on," he said, inclining his head toward the door. Rachel let out a squeak so loud that the entire room turned to them; she gestured toward the back yard with excitement.

"Scarf," Finn said before Kurt managed to step outside. The long, heavy scarf that Kurt had left draped over the couch was forced upon him. "I'm betting it's cold up there, and you're not over things yet. So, scarf." Like he suddenly realized he was telling Kurt what to do, Finn paled and stammered, "I mean, if you want to. I think it'd be a good idea."

"It is a good idea," Kurt agreed as he looped it around his neck and reached for his heavy coat. The tailored button flaps on his shoulders hung free as he pulled it on. Beginning to reach up to fasten those buttons, Kurt's hand stilled. "Finn? Would you mind?"

"Sure," he said shakily. He worked delicately despite his nerves, being absolutely sure not to brush the wings, and then stepped away when Kurt's coat was closed and warm. "Okay, there."

"Thanks," Kurt said, flashing him a smile.

"Welcome," Finn said, but he looked like he was the one given something.

Hercules was trotting around to sniff everyone when they joined the group outside. He instantly fell into line beside Kurt like he'd been trained for it. It was rather adorable, if still implausible after so many years spent afraid of the dog. Kurt wondered how far that trust would extend in the animal kingdom. Maybe he'd test a bear. He was quite sure the mountains had bears.

He escorted their group off the covered porch and into the yard beyond; Puck and Mike immediately moved to help Artie. No one had disturbed the space since his aborted flight attempt. The subsequent snowfalls had softened and hidden that landing spot, and so things looked crisp and clean. The sun had begun to peek through the clouds and it made the untouched snow sparkle. "Okay, um," Kurt began as he studied the yard. "Form an arc here," he gestured, trying to keep everyone in front of him. They fell obediently into line, though they ranged in how openly they were showing their excitement. Rachel actually had her hands clasped to her chin and was bouncing where she stood; Puck strove for mild interest if that. Finn simply looked hopeful to see a better flight than the last.

Then he made them wait until they'd quieted. He had few opportunities to put on a show. He'd take what he could get. Kurt collected himself, took a deep breath, and then snapped out his wings to their full length in a smooth, single motion. Their breeze stirred the snow around him and sent it into the air like glitter. He couldn't help but grin when they gasped, even Puck. He stood there for a little while longer, occasionally flicking the longest feathers against the snow, as they took in the sight before them.

It was time for the air. He leapt a hundred feet in a single bound, hearing their awed cries below him. The winter sunlight was so bright on that town as the clouds vanished. Everything was crisp, clean, and quiet. It looked like some perfect little village in a snow globe. Perhaps he could hold onto that in his heart when he looked back on his birthplace, Kurt thought as he began to arc and loop. It was so much easier to ride the air currents than it had been in his first attempts. Like when the wings snapped out to shake off snow or keep his balance, he didn't need to think about what to do next.

He was a performer, a dancer. Heat rushed through his body even in winter, like his blood was fire. Kurt climbed so high that he could only be a speck in their vision, and then, with a sudden impulse, snapped his wings shut and began to plummet. The wind wrapped around him and he felt his scarf flutter free of his jacket, and then fly into the distance. Even as gravity pulled downward, it felt like the earth had no claim on him. This wasn't like that day with a slaveowner family; he was diving, not falling. And unlike his last attempt at flight, his wings would support him.

They strained when he snapped them out suddenly, but in a good, healthy way like exercise. He pulled out of his dive with a parabolic arc that came close enough to hear his friends' awed reactions. With one last flip he turned that arc into his finale, and hovered just above the ground before them.

Mercedes' mouth hung open, as did Artie's. Her lower lip trembled. Brittany and Santana clung to each other mutely. Tina and Mike mirrored them. Puck, despite the role he tried to play, looked ready to cry. Finn only smiled. It wasn't a shock and marvel to him, like it was to them. It was a demonstration of what time and hope could do to heal a person.

Rachel was the first to step forward from their semi-circle. "Oh my God," she whispered, one hand clasped to her chest. With the other she reached hesitantly up to him, like she wasn't sure how real Kurt was. He took it and she gasped again. His wings stirred the snow again as they moved, and the air around them became a million diamonds. "I," she finally managed to say after gulping back her emotions, "am going to send you _so many_ perfectly themed song recommendations for you to practice."

That utterly _Rachel_ moment broke the spell over everyone and laughter swept them. Kurt landed lightly on the ground, stilling his wings, and the snow fell back to earth. Everyone clustered around, but he realized that Finn had put himself in position to keep them from pressing in too close. Their eyes met and Kurt nodded once. It was the right track. Things would get better.

"Will you say goodbye to Mr. Schue?" Tina asked suddenly, digging out her phone.

"Oh, of course," Kurt said, blinking and snapping back to the moment. "Good idea." She held it up and motioned for him to begin. "Hi, Mr. Schue. I'm leaving now. I wanted to say thank you for all the hard work you've put in with that club. I'd _better_ be reading stories about how well you all did." He hesitated, then said with more sincerity, "Thank you for trying to stop people from acting so awfully. It meant a lot to see that." He glanced at the people around him as he did. His gaze lingered on Santana. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "And good-bye."

"Can I?" Finn asked, and Tina gestured him onward after she turned. "Uh, hey, Mr. Schue. I know I already said bye to you, but I thought I'd do it again. Not exactly sure why, but..." He shrugged. "So you kept telling me to be a leader. And I don't know if that's who I'm supposed to be. Maybe I'm supposed to be some helper dude on the sidelines. Or a mentor. Or maybe I can figure out how to be a leader and do it the right way. But, you know... that's what I'm going to do. Figure it out. And thanks for helping me try. Okay, that's it," he said to Tina and she lowered her phone.

And that _was_ it. They all seemed to realize simultaneously that the farewells had been made. Plans had been set. Kurt reminded everyone that they would have extra rooms and they could all feel free to visit, but it had the feeling of people trying to linger after the natural end to a party. It was time to go. For all of them. People hugged him and Finn, then left by the side gate so they wouldn't track snow through the house. Mercedes reminded him that she loved him, Rachel secured another promise that he would always sing, and then it was only the two boys left alone with a watchful dog.

"I guess that's it," Finn slowly said as they heard the gate latch behind Rachel.

"Yeah," Kurt said, tugging closed the top of his jacket where his scarf had insulated against the cold. "I guess that's it."

The last cloud vanished from in front of the sun. The snow turned blinding in its brilliance.

"Let's go," Kurt finally said, and they walked inside for their last night in Ohio.

  


* * *

An employee showed up before dawn the next day. He was driving the rental truck, Burt explained. He'd even drive it back so they wouldn't have to pay any fees. After a short consultation on the map he set out ahead of the family; he was driving a slower vehicle, with more need for gas stops, and there was little need to keep together.

"I can't believe we're really going," Kurt said as he looked one last time around the garage. It was where he'd first set foot upon returning home and it was the place they were leaving from. His basement was stripped bare of what he cared about. Strangers would claim what remained. "I just... it feels so unreal."

"Come on," Burt said gently and nudged him toward the open back. His impromptu bed waited for him, taking up one side of the car. They'd piled luggage in the front passenger seat, having decided it would be better to have Finn sitting even with Kurt's head. The two of them could talk and watch movies together while Burt focused on potentially snowy roads. More luggage filled the space behind Finn's seat, blocking Kurt in. "You've got your phone, right?" he called to Carole.

"Yes, it's on," she said as she wrangled their new, massive dog toward the pickup. "And yes," she continued with the air of something she was tired of repeating, "I will not use it while I'm driving. I have the planned stops, I'll meet up with you there."

"She's not a morning person," Finn almost giggled as he pulled himself onto his seat and strapped himself in. The door slammed heavily shut.

"Dad," Kurt said when Burt came to help him get in. "It's... more than anything in the world I want to be somewhere better for me, but is it crazy that I don't want to leave?"

"Nah," Burt said kindly and chucked him under the chin. "This is all you've ever known, really. That's only natural. But this'll be good. Time for something new. Go on, get in."

Kurt looked one last time around their garage. He remembered pulling into that garage for the first time with his license. He remembered walking through that door a hundred times to tell his father about grades, performances, and the rare successes his life granted. He remembered holidays and a long-gone mother. "This is all you've ever known, too," he quietly pointed out. "Thank you for doing this, Dad."

Burt pulled him in for a hug. It was full-body, like he'd so easily done before worrying about the wings. "Thanks for letting me help."

Breathing unsteadily as he fought back his surging emotions, Kurt climbed through the back and arranged himself inside. After he was sure the wings were clear, Burt closed the door. It was a heavy door and was loud when it slammed. Kurt flinched despite himself. It sounded so final. It was so final. He wanted to go, and had to go, but like he'd told his mother's tombstone... he was scared.

"Here," Finn said and helped Kurt prop himself up high enough to look easily out the windows. "Looks kinda awkward to stay like that for long, and I know it's dark, but maybe you want to watch when we drive out of Lima?"

Kurt nodded as the car's engine roared to life and they began to back out of the garage. The incline of the driveway dropped out from under them, then the gutter along the street. Next they stopped, he heard the gears shift from 'reverse' to 'drive,' and their journey began. Quiet houses were nothing more than porch lights and dim windows. A few adventurous spirits had put up Christmas lights early.

Almost without thinking, Kurt's hand reached out and took Finn's. They rested together in silence as they watched their boyhood home vanish into the darkness.

Maybe people would change in that town. Maybe Quinn would face herself in the mirror. Maybe those boys in the hospital would walk a better path than the one they'd chosen before. It seemed like everything was changing; maybe anything was possible.

Drowsiness overcame them both when signs promised towns twenty miles distant rather than streets just up the road. It was still well before dawn. Finn put his seat back, Kurt wriggled off the heights of Mercedes' gift, and both fell asleep for hours.

"Morning," Burt said when they woke. "Welcome to Indiana."

Kurt pushed himself back high enough to look out the windows. It was light out by then, and he had to be careful not to reveal too much. Indiana seemed much the same as what they'd left. He wondered when things would start to look different. Finn appeared to think much the same, because he turned back from the window with a bored expression. "Wanna watch some of Artie's movies?" he suggested.

Nodding, Kurt dug through the stack and pulled out a random option. He handed it over and Finn pressed play on what they soon discovered was Tangled. Though unimpressed with the idea of watching a Disney movie, particularly after he'd heard their new dog's name, Finn relaxed into the antics of Flynn Rider and became involved in the plot.

Both boys went very quiet at a certain scene in the woods. They soon started laughing as Burt asked what was going on. "Um," Finn ventured as Rapunzel's glowing golden hair, the same hair that kept people eternally young and that belonged to someone hidden from the world, healed Flynn's injury. "You want to watch a different movie, or you want to be creeped out some more?"

"Wow," Kurt giggled. "I guess I made it to Hollywood after all."

The joke eased his worst tension and Kurt began to let go of his fear over leaving home. He was finally able to focus on the road ahead of them, not the road behind. He occasionally snacked on almonds, thankful for his small appetite, but stayed thirsty. He was holding out for a hotel bathroom behind a lock and key. They'd picked places with doors looking out on the parking lot; he could slip in and out without notice in the darkness.

He'd overlooked something, Kurt realized in the late afternoon light as they crossed the border from Illinois to Iowa. Their departure happened so suddenly that he hadn't checked everyone off his list. Finn amused himself by repeating "Ohio, Iowa, Idaho" as they pulled into one of their planned rest stops. It already felt so far away from the first state in the list.

"Could you buy some postcards?" Kurt asked Burt as he climbed out of the car at the tourism center. "And stamps?"

"Sure, care what's on 'em?"

Kurt shook his head. "Cornfields, whatever they have. It doesn't really matter." While Burt took the first leg of the pit stop, Kurt pulled out his phone and started searching through the white pages.

Finn leaned over to him to see why he was looking up an address. They'd promised to send updates to their friends, but that didn't need a home street number. "Aren't you just texting people?"

"Most, yes. But, you know, postcards are fun." Kurt found the number he wanted. Finn stared at it, then him, and held up his hands in surrender. When Burt returned and traded off sentry duties with Finn, Kurt took the proffered postcards and carefully lettered a name and address on the right half of Visit Beautiful Des Moines. A single sentence filled the left.

The next postal box they passed, Kurt pointed to and asked to stop. Finn's long arm reached out and dropped the card through the slot.

He'd said goodbye to everyone else. It was only fair to say something to Sue Sylvester.

 _Thank you for calling me someone. –Kurt_


	18. Chapter 18

America vanished below their tires, day by day.

On the first night Burt mentioned that he'd reserved three rooms at the hotel: one for the employee driving the truck and then two for the family. While they could always only use one of them, he'd figured better safe than sorry. The country was ramping up for Thanksgiving travel and if they didn't reserve an extra room they might not get it.

"I'd kind of like to stay together," Kurt said hesitantly. It was an odd thing to say when it meant a full family piling into a small hotel room, but he didn't know the land around them. They were already so far from home. It might be foolish, but he wanted to keep what he knew in his life within view. "If that's okay."

"Oh, we've become best friends," Carole said wryly when she arrived. Burt had given her the room number over her phone and she was just a few minutes behind them. Hercules bounded out of the pickup and landed heavily on the ground. "We had long, meaningful conversations about drool."

"Thanks for taking him," Burt chuckled. "I'll go walk him before we turn in for the night. Watch the boys?"

"I can sleep on the floor," Finn said after they'd settled in for an evening in front of the television. As Hercules stretched in front of the door, so closely that it couldn't open more than an inch, Carole dug through the grocery bags and began passing out food.

Kurt accepted the orange she handed him and then glanced at Finn. "What was that?"

"Well, um, they'll be on one bed. You can take the other, it's fine."

He immediately recognized that they were facing a _moment._ While neither of them would have been comfortable with the proposition before they left, that day had made it clear how very big the world was and how very small four people and one dog could feel within it. "I'll be right on the edge," Kurt finally answered. Though he'd often sprawled open on his own bed, something about being in that strange room made him want to pull in close. "If you'd rather not sleep on the floor, it's fine."

"Okay," Finn finally said after he seemed sure that Kurt meant it.

The alarm was set to an hour that made Kurt groan, but he knew he had to be settled back in the car before daybreak. As soon as he'd showered and his damp hair had dried enough to avoid a mess of cowlicks the next morning, he carefully took the distant edge of the far bed from the door. The bathroom wall was behind his wings and their parents and a guard dog sat between him and strangers. "I'm going to sleep," he announced, so Finn could take that as a cue to follow suit when he was ready.

Country music popped on the next morning at 5:30 AM. Kurt yawned and then froze. "Don't move," he whispered frantically, hoping that Finn would hear him but their parents wouldn't. He'd turned over during the night and like other people might fling out their legs as they slept, he'd extended one wing. It lay across Finn, who began to stir until he realized what was covering him.

"Uh," Finn said. Kurt could just make out the silhouette of his profile as he stared at the form on top of him. Nearly whimpering with nerves, Kurt retracted it against his body while trying to beat Carole turning on the nightstand lamp.

"Sorry," Finn mumbled when they were waiting alone inside the room. Carole had driven to find breakfast and Burt was checking the tires before they set off for another long day.

"For what?" Kurt asked.

"Well, you woke up and you were... you know," he said awkwardly. "It was right on top of me."

"Right," Kurt said slowly. "I did that on accident. You were just there."

"Oh. But you sounded scared."

Now that the moment had passed, Kurt was able to feel a little amused over it. After all, he'd inadvertently initiated every bit of that contact. "Obviously. If you'd moved under it and started brushing against me, well... they would have heard _everything_ as we got things straightened out."

Finn seemed to picture that and fought back laughter. "Oh. Uh, right. Little awkward."

"Just a bit," Kurt said and they both smiled. "Just be careful tonight. You know, don't roll over in case I do it again with the bottom one. Your Conan-sized self would snap that bone like a twig, and they _would_ notice if I started screaming."

Though his smile vanished at the suggestion of that injury, Finn also seemed relieved that Kurt hadn't exiled him to a cold bed on a hotel floor for the trip to come. "The Barbarian or O'Brien?" he asked.

"I was picturing a gangly funnyman, but knock yourself out," Kurt allowed.

They were in good spirits when they settled back into the car where another ten-hour day lay before them. Burt said he didn't mind as he liked driving, and Carole simply wanted to be off the winter roads as soon as possible. The boys were left feeling like they weren't allowed to complain, at least about the length of the trip.

"This movie is awful," Kurt said in western Nebraska. "I'm a little in awe. This is like... Carrie: The Musical. Oh yes, it was a real thing."

Finn snorted as he shoved trail mix into his mouth. "You made me watch Burlesque. You can watch Transformers."

Grumbling, Kurt sent Artie another series of texts asking what on _earth_ he'd been thinking by including that in the stack of summer blockbusters.

Their hotel stay in Cheyenne was quiet and comfortable, but Kurt had the feeling he was on the verge of something major. He didn't know what might be so different in the miles to come, but he knew it as surely as he'd felt approaching snow while the leaves were still changing. "No, I can't explain it," he said when the others had clued in to his twitchy behavior and asked what was wrong. "I literally can't explain it," he insisted. "I don't know what I'm feeling."

The road began to steadily rise as they left the next morning. Even in the dark, with little to orient their position, Kurt could feel them lifting toward the sky. Dawn revealed what he'd been feeling: they were past the edge of human control. Up through Cheyenne the land had been a patchwork of fences marking famers' fields. Everywhere he'd looked, he saw efforts to shape the world. Now they were traveling along lonely ridgelines and high plateaus. A tiny town they passed seemed like nothing more than a string of gas stations and diners along the freeway, with homes just visible on the wooded hillside.

"It's so empty," Finn said almost nervously. "What happens if we break down? Is there cell service?"

"More people around Akron than in this entire state," Burt said as he guided them down the freeway. The concept seemed almost impossible for Finn to grasp.

Kurt had written off eastern Wyoming when he'd looked at it. It was too dry and too bare. He wanted life around him even in the grass, and high trees towering overhead. But as he looked out at the expanse of snow without a person in sight, he softly said, "It's beautiful." It felt like he was breathing easily for the first time after a long illness.

They stopped that night in northern Utah. They were back firmly in the grip of civilization; Carole brought dinner from Chili's. The local stations talked about expansion plans for Salt Lake City's mass transit system, identified a murder victim, and reminded viewers of Thanksgiving events being held around the city.

"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving," Kurt said quietly. He risked peeking around the curtain looking out on the parking lot. It was less packed than the previous night's; most travelers were already with their families. "That's just incredibly appropriate, isn't it?"

Carole rose and squeezed his hand as she began gathering up the remnants of the three full dinners. "Better consider that your Thanksgiving dinner, everyone. I doubt we'll have anywhere to stop tomorrow, when we get near...." She paused, considered her words, and finished with a smile, "Near home."

"We'll have to hire contractors," Burt said. "Pick a house plan. I'll have to build that new garage. It all actually sounds kind of fun," he admitted. Of course it did; he was being presented with a new series of challenges with definite beginnings, middles, and ends. He could work with his hands and make things better than he'd found them. It might well be the antidote to any helplessness he'd felt while trying to make his son safe and secure in a town that didn't have room for him.

"I'll have to start a new school," Finn said somewhat unhappily. "Although I can finish off this semester back home. I mean... old home. I get to do my finals online."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "How'd you manage that?"

Burt smirked, and Kurt was suddenly reminded of the idea that he must wield secret powers if he somehow owned a controller. "I made Figgins think I'd be _unhappy_ if he didn't cooperate with us. Boy, did he ever jump at it." He saw Kurt and Carole's dryly amused expressions and said, "Oh, come on. It was my last chance. So I had a little fun."

"Lying sends you to hell," Carole sing-songed as she wedged the take-out trays into a trash can.

"I _implied_ ," Burt shot back. They both seemed on the verge of laughter.

"I'm going to read," Kurt said as he returned to the question of their future plans, still looking out the window at a strange town nestled in the shadows of mountains. "To keep up with school work, like I always wanted to. I'm going to write what I've been feeling, and write to people the ACLU knows. I am going to watch absolutely _no_ episodes of Jersey Shore," he added pointedly. His fingers brushed against the cold glass. "I'm going to go outside."

"Good plan," Carole said softly as she pulled the curtains closed. Even that narrow sliver was apparently enough to spark her maternal worry, and they weren't yet to their open land. "I... I am going to find the best place in driving distance to buy fifty pound bags of dog food, apparently." As they chuckled, Hercules rolled over and presented his belly to the room. His muzzle sagged ridiculously and his bared teeth looked like a smile. "We'll have to get him some friends," she decided as she knelt down and scratched. "And there will be mice, I'm sure. We should get cats."

"Yeah," Kurt said happily as he thought ahead to a gravel driveway with half-grown puppies running to greet his father after work, and cats curling up next to him as he turned the pages of his favorite books. They would buy new cars to replace the abandoned ones lacking four-wheel drive. He'd have companions watching him when he whiled away an afternoon doing tune-ups.

"Let's turn in early," he said, though it was a relatively short drive the next day. "I want to be there."

  


* * *

It could have been so many places. There was nothing inherently superior about that one little town in a particular valley. Kurt had seen places with more spectacular landscapes and places shaded by more towering forests. Other potential homes had privacy while still being vaguely convenient to major airports for visitors.

All they would have had to do for the grandest vistas, Kurt thought as they drove past a deep blue reservoir ringed with snowy pines, was bankrupt themselves. Instead of living directly under breathtaking peaks, they were nestled in gentle rises with crags off in the distance. The open valley floor held cattle and horses instead of endless forest. Those minor concessions meant that his family's future was assured, they had more land than he'd ever dreamed, and he could look forward to a single, stable home until the day the world changed.

It was important to find what really mattered, Kurt thought with a smile as the last stretch of land before home vanished.

"You're up pretty high," Finn said uncertainly as Kurt looked at the land around them.

"It's Thanksgiving afternoon," he said idly. "People will be busy inside. I'm fine." Though Finn seemed to relax at that, his complaints spiked when Kurt rose abruptly further. "Look!" he said, leaning close enough to the window to bump his nose.

"What?" Burt asked, glancing as he drove. Finn tried to look over him.

"They're... are they deer? They seem big. What's a bigger deer?" He didn't know _anything_ about the world out there, Kurt realized. Were there wolves? Mountain lions? "They're... moose?" he ventured, although the label didn't seem to fit quite right.

"I don't see anything," Burt said, but he'd turned quickly back to the road.

"How are you seeing something?" Finn asked as he squinted into the distance of the treeline.

"They're right there!" Kurt insisted. A few towering sets of antlers were still in place. He could see each individual hoof as it rose delicately out of the snow. Elk. Was that the right name? Elk? "Look, right along where the trees start. See them?"

Finn pulled back and eyed him. "Maybe if I had binoculars. That's way too far to see on my own." His nerves tightened visibly. For a moment they both clearly remembered a conversation about how Kurt hated feeling out of control with the changes he couldn’t stop. At that time last year he wouldn't have been able to see those far-off figures.

As he turned his head to watch them vanish, Kurt slowly raised one hand. Its fingertips brushed his cheekbone just under his eye. He considered the sight in front of him: a winter landscape more beautifully lit than anyone else there would see, animals too distant for the others' notice. And he smiled.

"We're getting close," Burt soon said as they passed through the heart of another small town. "Looks like this is the last place before we're there. Finn, take this paper, tell me which roads I'll need to turn on." He was intensely focused on fulfilling his chosen task; Finn joined him. That left Kurt to watch the land. With each passing minute they came closer to the sliver of the world that he would wholly claim as home. One mountain pass later, his small valley opened abruptly in front of them. It looked still and quiet under its snow.

"That's it," Kurt whispered. "We made it." He watched with delight as they drove past tiny local businesses mingled with occasional big names. The people there might not be perfect—they almost certainly weren't—but there was so much space between buildings. It felt like some critical mass of uncaring society hadn't been reached.

"There's a Subway," Finn noticed as he looked up from his paper. "Cool, real food. Hey! Hey, stop there!"

"They said the house is stocked," Burt said, but Finn began whining and he gave in and parked. Soon Finn returned with several sandwiches in hand and explained that, one veggie one aside, they were all turkey. He'd just taken care of their Thanksgiving dinner. "Good thinking," Burt told him in good spirits. "We'll go a little more, uh, formal next year."

He seemed so proud of himself that Kurt couldn't help but laugh as they drove the very last leg of their long journey. The tiny town was soon in their rearview mirror. Farmhouses dotted the landscape with smoking chimneys. It was an entirely unremarkable setting, and nowhere anyone would think to look.

They turned off the highway and Kurt felt the same drop in his stomach that leaving their garage had given him. That was it. They were on the property. They were heading to their temporary home, and right before them was _their_ land that they would shape.

"Ours is over to the right," Burt confirmed with a gesture through the windshield. "Man, that's pretty." It was. The snow was already thick and soft on the trees covering the increasingly steep hillside. It gently rounded their forms. In six months' time they would be green and bare against a blue sky, while wildflowers grew in the sunny spaces between.

"Holy crap, it's real," Finn said, like he hadn't been able to believe it before. The other occupants of the car both laughed.

"It is real," Kurt said as he turned and saw a mansion far off in the distance. Much closer was a house sized like the one they'd left. Though a few stately trees flanked it, it otherwise sat in a sloped meadow. No one would be able to approach the house without notice. No one would have any excuse for getting close.

"Breathe," Finn said softly, and Kurt realized he'd stopped.

They pulled up before its front door and Burt dug out a key delivered by their constant couriers. With only a moment of hesitation, Kurt opened the car door next to him and made an awkward exit through it rather than waiting for the trunk. His feet hit the snow without worry for anyone who might be standing there to gawk at him, and the cold hit his face without triggering any memories.

The 'guest house' was bigger than the home they'd left behind. Everything in it seemed to be made from natural materials: hardwood floors, a flagstone fireplace, heavy beams along the high ceiling. Broad windows let in ample natural light reflected off a field of snow. Despite its heft, that building felt like a comfortable retreat rather than a prison. Kurt mentally dubbed the style 'frontier chic,' acknowledged that he never would have put those words together before that moment, and resolved to repeat its look in their own home.

Kurt was turning to take everything in like some gawking character in a movie, he realized. He tried to say something to his father but it came out as a short, delighted trill of laughter. "Look," he said for something to say, and gestured at an impressive mission-style chandelier overhead. "It's beautiful! It's...." His emotions suddenly overcame him. With teary eyes he looked around at the refuge that had been given them, the open land through its windows, and the hillside that would hold their permanent home. "It's beautiful," he managed to choke out before he had to wipe at his eyes.

The fear and tension of a half-year's damnation began to pour free. Kurt tried to promise them he was happy as the last boundaries within him finally bent and snapped, but the words came out all garbled. Tears streamed as he gestured up the stairs at where his room would presumably be. He sniffled wetly as his hand pointed through the window at a landscape with no spectators. Only a thin, garbled noise escaped him as he pointed straight up and tried to explain about open skies.

Both Burt and Finn seemed to catch on that, despite the flood of emotions, he was in a good place. Finn smiled as Burt pulled Kurt into a hug, and then lost some of his own self-control as he began whispering how good it was to see his boy happy and how he'd do everything he could to keep him that way. For as long as it took, he'd do it.

Another engine pulled up behind them. Carole walked in and marveled at the house as Hercules bounded in on snowy paws. Separated for another day, he whined until Kurt laughingly gave him the attention he wanted.

"I got Thanksgiving dinner," Finn said proudly as he held up the plastic bag printed with the Subway logo.

"I'm going to go wash my face," Carole said, pressing against the small of her back. They'd driven two thousand miles in a handful of days. "I want to see the house, and—"

"I'll have to help unload the truck when it catches up," Burt reminded her. "I'll need Finn, too."

"All right," she relented. "We'll eat now." Then Carole smiled. Even tired and overwhelmed by the move, her voice was gentle when she said to Kurt, "Let's talk about what we're thankful for."

  


* * *

Kurt's new room was tucked high up under the eaves. The night sky overhead was clear like he'd never seen, covered in stars and streaked with color. No neighbor's speakers pounded into the night, no children shrieked as they played, and silence reigned rather than a constant thrum of traffic. He'd never known the world could feel that quiet. His own heartbeat echoed when he listened for it, and the only music through the window was birdsong and lonely howls.

They were all exhausted, they realized. Not simply from the move, but from the stress that had led to it. They'd been frightened and worried for so long that they hadn't even realized how much tension they'd carried, and no one wanted to do anything beyond lounge on the couch in front of a roaring fire.

On Sunday evening Kurt and Finn got a text: New Directions was moving on to Regionals.

"So that's it," Kurt said as he plucked at the quilt covering his bed. "They competed without us, they won, and they're not going to have us around. I know I was a given, but you...."

"We'll get the Xbox hooked up," Finn said. He didn't seem troubled by the realization that a bridge had been crossed without them. "That way we can grab the guys online soon."

"Okay," Kurt said, just as determined as Finn to stake out their new life rather than linger. "I think I'm going to read until I fall asleep, all right?" Taking the hint, Finn left him alone in the highest point in the house. The howls started again in the distance. Whether wolf or coyote, he didn't know.

Finding a comfortable way to lay against the headboard, and realizing his wings were almost like springs or cushions as they compressed, Kurt dug out one of the books he'd asked Carole to pick up before their journey. His replacement copies of the full Harry Potter series awaited him. He looked forward to making their acquaintance again, now that he viewed their author in such a very different light.

When the next day arrived, Kurt felt as if they should have been unpacking their movie collection.

A knock at the door sounded. With a wary glance around the living room Carole went to check the peephole. A faint gasp followed, and soon she was turning the lock. "You're George Clooney," she informed the man outside.

He chuckled. "Suppose I am. Hi," he said, waving at the occupants past her. They waved weakly back. Kurt felt as if he'd wandered into some surreal painting where the Hollywood Sign overlooked a valley in the Rockies. "I just wanted to let you know that the house is yours to use as you like until your place is ready. It's private, don't worry. And I won't be around much."

"Sure," Carole breathed. Burt looked dryly amused at how speechless she'd become in front of the man. Kurt suspected she would hear a guilt trip that evening.

George's attention snapped to him and Kurt blinked at the sudden focus. A gorgeous A-list star was staring _at him_. He could feel his palms grow sweaty. It was like every (harmless) dream of his old life had suddenly come true. "Kurt?" he asked, like there was any need to actually verify to whom he was talking.

"Yes?" Kurt managed to say, grateful that he'd pulled it off without squeaking.

"I hope you like it here. And I'm glad I could do something." He smiled; Kurt smiled helplessly back. Then the man's attention turned back to everyone. "When I am in the area, do you mind if Jennifer drops by?"

"Jennifer?" Burt asked, frowning in confusion.

"Oh. My, ah." When that ownership label faltered in his throat, he gestured at Kurt and they all let out noises of realization. "I'm usually busy reading scripts or making calls. It'd be nice for her to have someone to talk to, and there aren't many people who can be trusted. With everything they've checked out, and your own family situation...."

"Sure," Burt shrugged, but his demeanor grew more somber for his next words. "And thank you." The four members of the family found themselves stepping closer at that gratitude, like they were showing it came from all of them.

"We're all just trying to do what we can," said George. With one last smile he gestured to the door. "I'll leave you alone. Enjoy the house. Explore the area when you get a little more settled in, and don't worry about the town. It seems nice enough. Anyway, nice to meet you all." And then he was gone.

"Oh," Carole finally whispered. "That was George Clooney."

"I'm right here," Burt said mildly.

"Sorry."

"That was kinda cool," Finn said with a grin. "Can I tell... no," he immediately corrected, looking hangdog as he did. "I know we can't tell people who's doing all this." He stared at the door for a few beats, then asked, "But seriously, can't I tell _someone_ that he was here?"

"No, Finn," Carole said patiently.

Considering that, Finn changed his plan of attack to, "Do you think he knows Vin Diesel? It'd be cool to meet him. He could teach me how to do car tricks."

"You are never doing 'tricks' with a car we pay for," Burt instantly said.

As the good-natured argument commenced, Kurt stepped away to put on dinner. They couldn't start construction in the winter, so there was no garage. There was no house of their own. There was only quiet relaxation and healing, and becoming comfortable in their new home. It was what he needed. He heard Finn ask Carole if they could go explore the area a little in the weeks to come and reminded him, "You still have to study for your finals."

"God, _shut up_ ," Finn whined. Kurt grinned.

"We'll find time for both," Carole promised him as the room began to fill with the scents of a safe, comfortable home.

  


* * *

"I don't know why you didn't come straight here," Kurt said as he pulled out a knife. "Instead of going through a charade with a doctor."

"The men on the ski hill had this whole _system_ ," Carole said as she helped Finn. Off in the corner Burt watched the scene with bemusement. "Here, Finn, put up your foot... there you go. Anyway, I couldn't have really gotten away with just leaving, not once they saw he'd broken his leg."

"So your first day," Kurt asked for confirmation as he rolled up his sleeve, "and you take a lift to the top of a ski hill."

"That little hill is for kids," Finn said. His face was creased with pain.

"Or people who _haven't been on skis before._ " He saw the correction coming and, with a roll of his eyes, said, "Who haven't been on snowboards. Perhaps you should try skis, instead. You might do a bit better balancing on two tiny pieces of wood rather than one."

"Snowboards are cool," Finn said grumpily.

"Open up," Kurt ordered him as he slit his wrist. Finn's mouth locked around the wound and, after an initial moment of hesitation when it became obvious that it didn't taste like the blood he knew, he drank. "Not ending up in traction in a hospital, that's 'cool.' If you go there again, you stay on the little hill."

"Fine," Finn grumbled when he finally pulled away. After a few minutes he pushed on his leg and nodded at Burt. "Feels all better." With a nod back, the man went to get tools to cut him free of his cast.

"Really, Finn," Kurt said tightly two weeks later. "If you're going to go there, you _have to learn what you're doing first._ "

"Ow," Finn whined. That time Carole had successfully snuck him out of the ski resort without any notice. It avoided a bewildering medical history, but it had made for a painful ride back.

"Open up," Kurt muttered again. "Idiot. I should just make you heal on your own. Oh, I'm not serious," he said when a sad, scared expression was his response. "I should make you take your finals with a cast," he said to the air as Finn drank again. "I should make you go through Christmas and New Year's with a cast. All of it. Stop slobbering on me, it's closed. What?" he asked when he saw that Carole and Burt were fighting back amusement.

"You sound like brothers," Burt said simply.

Finn grinned at that, then tried to stand up to give Kurt what was clearly destined for a ridiculous hug. Instead he put weight on his broken leg before it had fully healed, shrieked, and collapsed back onto the couch.

 _"Idiot,"_ Kurt repeated and picked up the knife again. He heard laughter behind them.

  


* * *

Occasionally a gust of cold air caught Kurt wrong, and occasionally Finn moved in a way that froze him with old terrors. It wasn't Finn, he had to explain when he came out of it. Finn was bigger, like those boys had been, and sometimes he looked wrong out of the corner of his eye. If he were entirely comfortable with Finn then perhaps even those associations would die, but Kurt knew he was so much closer to that than before. He just needed a little more time.

On a day when the only remarkable occurrence was the two boys being left alone, the doorbell rang. Kurt peered out the window to see what car had journeyed up the long drive, but the parking space before the house was empty. The garage had never opened. Considering that, he walked to the door and looked through the lens. Wings greeted him.

He felt suddenly overwhelmed. He'd never seen another person like him face-to-face. Perhaps he would have if he'd stuck around that training base for more than his recovery time, but he'd been alone in the world. That was what it was like for almost all of them, he realized sadly. They might see each other when they were being broken, but then they were sold alone.

"Hello?" asked a voice with a Midwestern inflection. "Anybody there?"

He took the risk of swinging open the door. "Hi. You must be Jennifer?"

She was even more beautiful in person than she'd been on the Oscars broadcast, but that was only expected. Strawberry blonde hair spilled out from under a warm cap. Eyes much like his own sparkled above freckled cheeks. He could just make out blue along the edges of her wings; the side that faced him was stark black and white. She was a pale statue against the snow and Kurt wondered if they were supposed to share some sort of formal greeting.

She answered that in the next moment when she thrust her gloved hand at him. "Hi! I definitely am Jennifer."

"Hi," he replied, shaking it. He could hear footsteps behind him. "Kurt Hudson." The lie became easier each time he made it. Eventually the name would fit him like a well-worn pair of shoes. "I was obviously mentioned." Glancing over his shoulder, he added, "That's Finn."

"Hi," Finn said, a slow grin growing as he stood before the two Angels. Kurt didn't want to know what he was thinking.

"So I guess we're supposed to be friends when George is here, right?" Jennifer asked, barging into the house and bringing snow with her. Kurt softly protested, but wondered if he was even allowed to say anything to the Angel whose owner had given them a home. "White wings?" she asked, scanning him up and down, and then turned to Finn. "Is he nice?"

"Uh," Finn managed, clearly taken off guard. "I guess so?"

"Like, really super nice?" When Finn didn't seem ready to commit to that description she changed her questions to, "Innocent? Humble? Prissy?" Jennifer nodded when Finn's mercurial expressions lit up over the last option. "Knew it."

"Excuse me," Kurt said weakly. "What's going on?"

"Your wings match you," she said like it was patently obvious. "Do you not know this?" He clearly didn't, and she went on to explain, "White wings have lots of different personalities. I guess white works for anything. The sweet little innocent lambs, the quiet types, snooty and obnoxious... lots of options."

"I thought it was random," Kurt finally managed to interject.

"Well," Jennifer allowed. Even that single word was fast. "Okay, it's just a theory. Because, you know, I go to all these big parties, and I meet all these other Angels, and the wings usually seem to match the person." Sadness flashed. Although she hid it in an instant, Kurt saw that she was a real person putting on a front rather than some sort of perky cartoon. "I mean... when you can tell what they're like, anyway. A lot of them are pretty quiet."

"Right," Kurt said softly.

"You probably won't get to go to any parties," she said. "Because you wouldn't have someone taking you, like George takes me when he has to show up at stuff. That's too bad. It's fun to meet people. Even if they, you know, all call you 'it' and ask if they can take off your clothes and stuff. He apologizes when we leave. It's okay, I know I don't have to any more."

Was she really this paper-thin, Kurt wondered as he stared at the chatty girl. She wrote off dehumanizing comments like they were nothing, because in return she got to meet celebrities? Her moment of sadness didn't make up for that. Living with an A-lister had clearly warped her.

Somehow, in an avalanche of stories about overheard gossip and world travel, they wound up sitting in the living room while Finn put on a teakettle to boil. "So you live with your parents?" Jennifer asked, looking around the space. "That's so weird. No one does."

Glancing at Finn, who looked ready to go with the half-lie, Kurt nodded. "Yes. Mom and Dad."

"Oh." Her fingers twitched frantically against a hangnail, which pulled free and then healed. "Um, when they start getting old, there's something you can do? If they swallow your blood you can keep them young. That way you don't have to risk a new owner. It's really important to have a good owner."

Kurt could barely manage to force himself into her monologue, despite his panic-driven need. "I already knew that," he hissed. "But you can't just go around telling people that we can keep them young! What if the wrong person finds out? I don't know about you, but I don't want to be some billionaire's eternal IV bag."

"What?" Her nose wrinkled. "It doesn't work like that. You don't know anything. It's only for people you want to help. Like, you probably didn't know that we can heal people... okay, fine, you did. But you have to want to help them for it to do anything." She shrugged. "So no biggie if someone thinks they could use us. They'd try but think they were wrong."

"Wait," Kurt repeated until she finally stopped. She was _exhausting._ "But that doesn't make any sense. We can't stop ourselves from healing."

"I know. But we have control over that." That flash of sadness rushed past her again. "It's nice to have control over something."

Was that true? Kurt stared at his left palm as he thought back to the day in the garage. He'd wanted Finn to live, and so he had. If those boys in the pickup had tried to drain him to heal themselves, would his blood really have vanished without any help offered? Someone couldn't force him to do something, he realized as a slow smile grew. If she were right about that, then he did have control. He was powerful. And between that, theories about mood ring-like wings, and whatever else might be out there, he had more to learn than simply chopping off a finger.

He had a whole life ahead of him.

Kurt began, "Why didn't Mr. Clooney—"

"George."

"Why didn't George give you back to _your_ parents?" He looked up from his palm. "I'm assuming it hasn't been too long? I'm just guessing, but... 'Jennifer,' after all. That's relatively recent, popularity-wise. If... if that's your real name."

"Oh. Yeah." A finger threaded through one spiral curl and tugged at it. "And you're right. 1983. Year of the Pig. Did I ever luck out."

"Did you forget where you're from?" he asked gently.

"Nope. Broadway and Vine. Brainerd, Minnesota. I still had my Rainbrow Brite dolls."

Her already hyper speech patterns were growing nearly frenzied. Kurt tilted his head, wondering what was wrong. He did hope that he hadn't misstepped; what if her family had been lost in the meantime? That long apart was plenty of time for disease or accidents to steal away waiting parents.

"They, ah." Jennifer's finger tugged frantically. It was hard to resist the urge to move her hand away before she gave herself a bald spot. "They turned me in."

Kurt froze. Finn, who'd been carrying over mugs full of steaming water, nearly dropped them. As they both stared at her in mute horror, Jennifer smiled in nervous flashes and continued, "You know. Hundred thou for a finder's fee, and they didn't have a daughter any more, anyway. Is that peppermint tea? I love peppermint. Anyway, it's really nice that you live with your family."

She'd probably been collared for sixteen years and owned for eleven or twelve. From what Kurt knew of George Clooney's career, there was simply no way he was her original owner. He couldn't have afforded her when she first went up for sale.

Kurt had the sudden, chilling certainty that her original ownership had been as bad as it ever got.

Their visitor made a little more nervous chatter as she sipped her tea. She missed living in Italy. It was boring there. She didn't like it when things were too quiet; it gave her time to think. George said she needed to relax and think, but she didn't want to. She liked the parties they attended. They were going to another one in Hollywood that week. He'd gotten another role. It would require some location shooting. Maybe in Europe. That'd be fun.

Though the boys occasionally tried to speak up, they soon gave up and let her ramble as she liked. She finally set aside her tea, said it had been very nice to meet them, and that she would stop by whenever she was stuck there in the country. Hopefully they would get to go somewhere else, Jennifer added as they escorted her to the front door and said very polite farewells. Who'd want to stay right there, after all?

Her blue jay's wings lifted her off the ground. Kurt felt a sudden impulse to join her, and realized he'd lifted onto his toes when Finn looked at him in amusement. "I don't know why I did that," he admitted. "She's exhausting. I don't really _want_ to spend time with her. But...."

"But she's the first you've met," Finn finished, and Kurt nodded.

There was something else, though. Kurt wrapped his arms around himself and watched her vanish into the distance. "She's been rescued for years. I just get this feeling that she suffered as badly as anyone does, though I don't really know how awful her first owner was. But she's been safe and a _person_ again for years. And she's still obviously recovering." His gaze roamed slowly across the hillsides that, years in the future, would hold homes for those in need. "This is going to be so hard," he said just above a whisper. "They're going to be so broken."

"She remembered her name," Finn finally said when he'd joined Kurt in staring at those still-bare hillsides. "She remembered her home. She even remembered her dolls. There's a person there." So long as there was any sliver left, they could heal. Angels healed. If the wounds were especially terrible, it just took longer.

A low baying bark sounded next to them. They turned to see Hercules sniffing at the cold air. He'd already relaxed in their new home. It was obvious that he no longer felt constrained and impotent inside a tiny yard. Rather than living with a family who could easily look after everything they owned, he had pride in protecting one that could use the help. Any misplaced aggression was gone.

"Can you see who it is?" Finn asked, holding up his hand to block the sunlight and squinting into the distance. It was a bright day and the snow was blinding. "I mean, I assume it's them...."

Kurt squinted too, and then shook his head. "No. I'll check." Without any concern for prying eyes he shot into the sky and looked down on the gleaming landscape. It was still difficult to make out, but with an overhead view he could tell a pickup was returning from its trip to the forested hills. "They're back," he confirmed when he landed.

Soon Burt and Carole had returned with the pine tree they'd cut down in the woods. "Parked as near as we could," he chuckled as he slid it off the metal. "And then it was time for a hike."

"I'm cold," Carole informed them as she headed into the house without another word. While Finn helped Burt carry their Christmas tree inside, Kurt went to tell Carole about their visitor.

"Three mugs?" she asked when he walked in. Carole was frowning slightly at the tea dregs left abandoned on the coffee table. "Kurt, was someone here?"

"Yes. Jennifer—"

"Jennifer?" she repeated, looking concerned. "Who's Jennifer?"

Kurt, seeing something on the floor, bent over and retrieved a feather. It was a complex pattern of blue, black, and white. "She's George's," he said simply and Carole relaxed at the reminder.

She twirled the feather between her fingers when he handed it over. "Pretty," she said idly. "What was she like?"

"Broken," he said.

"Oh," she said sadly. They were both quiet until she continued, "Well... you said that about yourself, Kurt. And you were. You really were. Things are getting better though, right?"

He nodded. It was just so hard, and he said as much. "To be that far gone...." he trailed off helplessly. "She was in a good mood and she still was hiding so much pain. Carole, her parents turned her in. For a hundred thousand dollars they sold their daughter. Before taxes," he added and his voice caught on the words.

She considered that and sat on the couch. When her hand patted the next cushion he joined her. "What goes on is so terrible. But you are already finding good things, Kurt. You're making goals and not letting other people turn this against you. You will be strong and confident and kind when they need you, and they'll get to the place you're at."

"I'll try," he said quietly. "I'll... that is a _massive_ tree," he said as it eased through the front door. "We hardly have any ornaments!" Kurt protested as he watched Burt and Finn maneuver the felled pine into the living room. Only a few favored pieces from both families' collections had made the trip. "It'll be empty!"

"Whatever, it'll smell nice," Finn said as they positioned it over the holder and he knelt down to tighten the screws.

"This is pretty big," Burt laughingly agreed once they'd stepped back to take in the sight. With the room's high ceiling, a very large tree was able to fit within it. "Uh, Carole can run over to that other town, see what they have for sale. Just some basic stuff to start."

"Pick out some good ones too, though," Kurt corrected as he adjusted a few bent branches. "Ones with the year on them." His hands brushed lightly through the still-cold needles. The next tree would be in their real home. More ornaments would fill boxes over the years to come. And some day, when even the largest tree was covered in signs of the decades that had passed, he'd be ready to be that safe harbor.

"Hey, can you put this on?" Finn asked as he dug through the small box and retrieved a tree topper.

"I'm more likely to shoot into the ceiling, I think," Kurt said dubiously as the golden star was placed in his hand. "Can't we get a ladder?"

"Just go slow," Burt encouraged him. Carole nodded hopefully, and Kurt groaned.

"Just go slow," he repeated as he focused. He'd only ever _landed_ slowly. He'd descended into hovering, not started with it. The word 'launch' had always filled his mind when he took off, for good reason. "Slow," Kurt repeated as he inhaled, exhaled, and tried to lift into the air.

The air was controlled and still inside the house. No currents flowed to guide him. He instinctively flapped harder to make up for the help the air wasn't offering, panicked when he realized that was sending him upward, and latched onto the tree to steady himself. It nearly tipped over as he crammed the topper onto it and, with a sigh of relief, dropped back to the floor.

Magazines lay scattered where he'd blown them away. Pine needles formed a carpet under the tree.

"And there's something else you can work on over the years," Carole said with a grin.

"Maybe we will just get a ladder next time," Burt said wryly.

It had grown so cold outside that Kurt's few real flights were cut short. He grumbled at everyone as they laughed at his awkward attempt. Everyone was in good spirits as they cleaned up the mess and began arranging the few ornaments. Glancing at the snow through a window, Kurt thought back to the way he'd risen on his toes to follow that girl. The sights of Lima and their new home in winter filled his mind. What they'd been given was already wonderful, but he craved spring. He couldn't wait to go outside again where he belonged.

  


* * *

"The contractors are there," Burt warned as they drove up the muddy driveway.

"We need to lay down gravel," Kurt said idly as he took in the sight of the road. "Otherwise it'll be like this every time it rains."

"Kurt, did you hear me?"

"I heard you, Dad," he said. It was May and construction had been going on for a month; of course the contractors were there. Another group of workers was clustered along the highway where a new business grew.

"I just thought... do you want to get out here, maybe?" he asked. The car began to slow, then stopped. There were still a few bends in the roads before the house's foundation and skeletal form would appear. "I just assumed you wouldn't want people around you."

Kurt smiled. He knew he might be gawked at, but by then it seemed like a problem with the world rather than a signal of how very _wrong_ he was. Nor did he fear those workers; they'd been checked out and he trusted that. "Dad," he began sweetly. "Do _you_ want me to get out here?"

"You mind?" Burt replied, laughing like he knew he was being foolish. He was clearly more worried than Kurt was. "Just stay up there where I can see you?"

"Pop the trunk," Kurt said, and slid out onto the muddy ground as Hercules whined over his departure. His boot collection had largely taken over his closet, though lighter shoes might return when sun-baked ground was firm and dry under his feet. He caught the door in one hand and moved to close it, but hesitated. "It's been a year."

"A year?"

Swallowing, Kurt gestured at his shoulders. He could still remember the strange pain pressing on his back, and the noise of utter despair that had torn from his father when he'd looked. "A year."

"Oh," Burt said and paled.

"I marked the date. Kind of a big deal," Kurt tried to laugh off. He shook his head and refocused. "Anyway, go check on the house. Take pictures, let me know how it's looking, and come stop here on the road when you're ready to leave." With a wave he closed the door and motioned Burt on. Wheels set back into motion and Kurt was left alone in the open world.

Deep snowfall had left the ground very wet. It had taken the sun a few weeks to fight away the last signs of winter, and then the world suddenly exploded into color. Green painted the hillsides and the muted shades of the pines returned to life. Each passing day intensified the blue sky just that much more. Under that blue sky, wildflowers bloomed in a dozen different colors.

"Climb every mountain," Kurt murmured to himself as he closed his eyes and took in the scent of those flowers on a passing breeze. A tradition missed months before came to mind, but he didn't miss the sight of Julie Andrews spinning on a mountainside. He'd watched that movie with his mother and she'd be so much happier to know he was living it. "A dream that will need all the love you can give," he said as he considered more of the lyrics. "Every day of your life, for as long as you live."

When Rachel visited, he would show her a flower-covered hillside and they would _nail_ that number.

Laughing, Kurt shot into the air and saw the car drive away under him. Perfect puffy white clouds tempted him. One day, when the collar was off, he would rise above them. For now he saw a green valley below, covered with life instead of parking lots. To the south Finn was finishing his day at school; just over there, in the guest house, Carole was still in disbelief that she'd already seen a positive sign on a small plastic stick.

He came too near a tree and birds exploded out of it, arcing into the sky in a rippling cloud of motion. There were so many, he thought with awe as he watched them dart and weave together. Someday many other wings would fill that sky. Below him he could see the dappled form of a fawn curled up in a shaded hollow. Further away, on the valley floor, foals frolicked.

The rainbow of flowers nearly blinded him but Kurt kept his eyes open as he looked across the distance. He'd already written his first letters. In them, Kurt had represented himself not as someone broken but as someone who the world had tried to break. He just needed a chance, and so did everyone else. That first effort hadn't yet fixed all their problems, but one day people would speak out in public. One day they would hammer a nail on the last refuge home and welcome in those in need. It would happen: the world would get better.

He should enjoy his time in the sky, Kurt realized. Once his father returned with pictures, he'd want to claim him for the afternoon to plan. As beautiful as the sunset was from a thousand feet up, Kurt also wanted his time in the sun. Kurt arced and twisted with even more grace than the birds vanishing into the distance, knowing that he never could have done so without the changes he'd once feared. If he squinted, he could just make out each bird's wings as they moved. Then they were gone and he could only see the sky.

Turning, he saw the house under construction. They'd cleared a long space for it, past what the current plans would need. They didn't know how large the family might grow. Elsewhere he saw ponds, fences, and the tiny, safe homes to come in an imagined future. As he looked down on the valley, with its explosion of color that seemed to echo inside him, Kurt could see a life ahead.


	19. Epilogue

On May 6, 2038, a developing news story broke in Malaysia. Private mercenaries were attempting to assault the home of one of the nation's sultans. An otherwise typical account of geopolitical tensions was made memorable by the attackers' motivation: they were on the payroll of the cartel. And the sultan, locked in his home with part of the nation's military between himself and the assailants, had watched wings grow on his son.

Angel liberation had become a trendy thing among those who considered themselves on the bleeding edge of social awareness, but it had never managed to gain traction among the general populace. Normal people either didn't care or knew they were effectively mute in those conversations. The elite either still wanted a prize or didn't feel that they could overcome a system that had been in place for nearly a century.

If the cartel found an Angel, international law said that they had every right to take that _thing_ in for training. Every Angel found before that, nearly thirty thousand as the pace sped, had come from middle class suburbia or distant villages or urban blocks. None had belonged to parents who, when they screamed "no," had the muscle to back it up.

After the shooting stopped, for the first time the cartel left a targeted Angel uncollared. When the smoke died down, the news stories were filled with the sight of a man clutching his son and promising that no one would ever break through their walls.

And people began to wonder.

Collaring had become a simple fact of life. It could happen to anyone, actually happened to very few, and the world moved on around those grieving families when it did. It was a death sentence legislated into existence and death came to all people, after all. It was certainly sad for some parents to say goodbye to their adolescent children, but others lost theirs to illness or accidents.

Before that story, no one had been able to fight off death thanks to a position of privilege. The great equalizer was overturned.

And people began to wonder.

Why was it fair for that one child to be kept safe when thousands of others had been taken away? The kneejerk response was to say that the son should be turned over, but that soon fell away as they realized what they were saying. It was impossible to argue that his crying mother should be forced to give up her son, rather than arguing that... maybe no one should be trying to take it.

Take him.

Should that child be called 'he' or 'it?' There was no collar in place. There was a bedroom at home. That was a son's life. News anchors struggled with the decision. The BBC was the first to settle on a style and announce it to their staff: he. The child was he. Other networks soon followed.

And people began to wonder.

  


* * *

A man who looked close to thirty drove up a long gravel driveway. It wound nearly a mile northeast of the highway, slowly rising away from a meadow into forested foothills. The house there sprawled after so many years, with suites for visitors and bedrooms built for new family members. Something about the blood she drank to stay young gave Carole twins every time she stopped her birth control.

Though he couldn't yet see that driver, Kurt knew who was there. The driveway curved past the garage along the highway, and every visitor who triggered its pressure pad was filmed as they passed. He'd glanced at the video feed to see who was coming. It was almost always his father leaving work, but occasionally the daily pattern of their lives was interrupted.

A pack of shepherds, Australian and German and Anatolian, trotted in from their patrol. The family hadn't set up their own breeding kennel; there was no need. Supporters of the refuge included breeders and trainers, and unlike hired human security, Kurt could trust every last one of those faces as soon as he saw them. Occasional rescue dogs joined the packs and were molded by the veterans. "Good job," he told them with a few affectionate pats. They heard the approaching car and went on alert, but Kurt told them to stand down.

It was a demanding life, but they'd found animals that rose to the challenge. With one last purchase five years earlier they (and their neighbor) owned every bit of land in that small valley. The town still existed as rentals, though many residents had left, but everyone there was friendly with the family and politely ignored what they were doing. The dogs were introduced to everyone there during their training and so overlooked them on their patrols.

"Believe me," a woman had once said as she affectionately rubbed an Aussie's head. "She'll be much happier with a job to do here than spending her days alone in someone's back yard." That woman, with a kennel near Baker City, had given them many dogs over the decades. Her hair had turned from red to grey.

Pleased with their praise, the dogs then ran off for feeding. Kurt stayed well clear of those smells; they all had their jobs to do and his were thankfully clear of anything involving meat. Thinking of that, he cast a smile down toward the valley floor. Orchards of green trees dotted it here and there. He'd watched all of them grow.

Homes had also grown under the family's hands, looking like vacation cabins scattered along the hillsides. They were small but comfortable. The same plans had been followed for each one, but only the exterior was standard: sturdy siding, a porch large enough for sitting, and glossy black solar shingles. The interiors reflected whatever had been donated during that home's construction. They all had comfortable beds on varied frames, televisions from different brands, and small fridges left over in inventory after college-bound seniors had done their dorm shopping.

The familiar truck finally approached the house. Kurt could make out the driver he'd known was there, and didn't wait for him to step clear of his opened door before he said, "Hi, Finn."

"Hey," Finn said as he retrieved a duffel bag from the passenger seat. He looked over his shoulder at the world behind him, shook his head, and asked, "Uh, need a favor."

Soon they sat at the kitchen counter as Finn described his last attempt to form a life that followed the cycle of the calendar. He'd stayed at home for decades. He learned the work at the garage, he built houses, and he swung new siblings around by their limbs as they shrieked and giggled. But eventually he wanted to see if there was something he needed in the world outside, and none of them could begrudge him that.

The last Kurt had heard, Finn was engaged to a girl born in 2012. They looked the same age. Finn had stayed away from Kurt's blood for nearly a decade as he tried to decide where his future should be, and had been gone for half that. "Lauren's not with you," he pointed out as he settled onto a stool.

"You know I can't have anyone visit," Finn mumbled.

"You can when you trust them enough," Kurt shrugged.

Finn stared at his hands like he was recording how they looked. "Yeah. So... you know I can't have anyone visit."

"What happened?" Kurt asked.

"You heard what's happening on the news." Finn flexed his hands and watched the ways the muscles and tendons stretched. By August, the discussion sparked by the sultan's son had grown very loud across the globe. "Things are changing. I should stop pretending that I'm supposed to be out in the world."

Hope fluttered again in Kurt's chest at the reminder of news stories, but he tried to ignore it. He'd expected the conversation about slavery to die but it had only grown louder. Still, he couldn't be certain that things would change. And even if they did, it might be a long time. "You know if I do this," he pointed out as he raised the knife, "you won't be able to go back to her. She'll be too shocked. You won't have a chance to explain. You've only been aging for... ten or eleven years? That's not old, Finn."

"I know this will end it, yeah." Finn gestured at the knife. "So do it. Please."

Nodding, Kurt took him at his word and drew the knife deeply through his flesh. He hissed with pain as but held up his arm before the wound began to close. Finn wrapped his hand around Kurt's wrist; blood glowed between his fingers. With one deep breath he placed his mouth to the cut and drank.

When he pushed back the healed wrist, years were already dropping away. The man turned into a boy before Kurt's eyes. Finn sat there silently as he returned to the face he'd worn for decades. "Looks like it's stopped," Kurt finally said.

"Thanks," Finn said and shouldered his duffel bag. "Is my room still my room?"

"Same as you left it," Kurt confirmed. "I've kept it clean." Finn had stopped by every few months but seldom gave warning. When he left after those visits it was as if he had to motivate himself to leave again, but he always did. Every time he worked with his family, regained lost energy, and then once again tested himself in the real world to see if his destiny was out there.

The answer to that question seemed to be 'no.' Not now, at least. "Everyone'll be so glad to have you back," Kurt said as they ambled up the stairs and to two of the oldest bedrooms in the house. "They're off doing chores, but when they see your truck?"

"Yeah, time for a big reunion," Finn agreed. Their family had grown large and the house was always full of life. He pushed open the ajar door to his room and grinned. "Am I going to have to fight you for my bed?" he asked the three kittens who were yawning sleepily on his comforter.

A smile on his face, Kurt began to say that the bathroom was stocked and so he could feel free to freshen up. His favorite shampoo was still under the sink and towels were in the cupboard. If he'd prefer not to wear something out of his suitcase, some clothes were still in his dresser. Like he hadn't since he'd tried to find some wife out in the world, Finn's hand snuck out and interrupted Kurt with a long, firm stroke down one wing.

When the words coming out of Kurt began to sound like English again, he shot Finn a look of mock offense. "Well, you didn't waste any time."

Finn nearly giggled. If Kurt ignored how old he actually was, the sound seemed a natural fit for his boyish face. "What? You've gotta be bored. You can only order so much online to keep yourself entertained. Am I right?"

"Yeah, you're back," Kurt said with a roll of his eyes. "Go take a shower, you smell like Doritos."

When he finally convinced Finn to follow orders, Kurt went to organize his work in the small office adjoining his room. He suspected his attention would be held elsewhere for a while to come, and he wanted to be able to remember what he'd been doing.

A movie producer was making what few realized was an allegorical film about Angel slavery, and Kurt was the uncredited advisor. Rowling had questions about what it felt like to be so thoroughly treated as 'other,' and was interested in his input as well as her own companion's. The name on those books wasn't hers, of course. She'd 'discovered' a younger, secretive author who was never seen in public. That recluse spun tales about finding freedom when the odds were against it.

Kurt had kept himself very busy.

He picked up a phone and pressed a contact button. "Hey, Dad," he said after a single ring. "Yeah, that was Finn who drove by. Looks like he's home."

  


* * *

On November 2, 2040, Sweden outlawed the ownership and sale of Angels within its borders.

It was easy for them compared to other nations. A strong history of equality and no overwhelming concentrations of wealth meant widespread support for the law and few powerful voices arguing against it. Soon Sweden became the target of families around the world who were trying to find anywhere that might be safe for their children. Any family dealing with wings was by definition desperate, but many of the people promising to get them to safety in Stockholm weren't dependable. Most of them were turned in for the finder's fee.

In 2041, Finland and Norway voted in similar laws and the Scandinavian Peninsula became the first free place in the world for those who could reach it.

New Zealand, despite being a popular vacation destination to film Angels against its scenic backdrops, outlawed ownership in 2045. Canada followed in 2047, nearly ten years after the incident with the cartel. Malaysia, to the world's general surprise, instituted its own laws that year. They named it after that boy.

In 2048, Sotheby's Auctions in Manhattan oversaw the sale of thirty-nine Angels on the secondary market.

  


* * *

"Your _hair_ ," Kurt said mournfully as their visitor stepped out of her car. "I thought you were coloring it."

Rachel patted her salt-and-pepper hair before she smirked at him. "Aren't you always railing against the use of unnecessary chemicals?" Seeing him about to argue, she cut him off with, "I know, you think hair dye counts as necessary. What can I say?" she asked as she swung her suitcase out of her car and he took it. "Some of us have simply had to get used to aging. We've had practice."

He didn't say anything as he escorted her through the front door. They both stepped out of their muddy shoes on the broad, flat stones of the entry hall and left them next to the half-dozen other pairs. A high cathedral ceiling rose above their heads as they walked on; laughter echoed against it. "Hey," Kurt said as they approached the sunken living room. Finn's face lit up at the sight of their visitor, as did Burt and Carole's. All three looked the same age.

The fifteen year old twins, Jill and Cole, saw who was visiting and turned their attention back to the game after a perfunctory hello. "Teenagers," Kurt confided in a low voice. "She's staying for a few days, all right?" he added to everyone as he led her past the roaring fireplace and down the hall to the newest wing of the house.

"I didn't stay here last time, did I?" she asked as she shrugged off her coat and hung it in that room's closet. "It's been... oh, how long has it been since I've been here, Kurt? Two years?"

"Three. And this is all new," he confirmed. "Finn and I have been busy."

"I can't believe you let that boy use power tools," she sighed as she slumped into an armchair. Her gaze turned to the window and she took in the sight across the hillside. There were so many cabins waiting for occupants.

"He hasn't been a 'boy' since you've been a 'girl,'" Kurt pointed out. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back to prop his weight against his elbows. They'd long since moved past any need to stand on even a sliver of formality.

"I know," she said. "It's just that when I see you, there's something rather obvious reminding me why you look the same. Seeing him, or your parents... it's odd. And you can't tell me that it's not," she said with challenge. He smiled and allowed it.

"You should be sure to talk to Finn," he said as she dug through her briefcase. "You two haven't gotten a chance to see each other in person for a while, right? With how he was gone."

"That's right," Rachel said, distracted. "Aha, here we go," she said and retrieved the papers she'd apparently been hunting for. "I'm working on this case. I thought you should see the evidence we've gathered in person."

"These documents are confidential, aren't they?" Kurt smirked as he began shuffling through them. "You're _finally_ cutting loose, Ms. Berry."

She made an art out of pushing the law to its limits. She refused to accept what people said must be true and managed to create her own stories from precedent that most never would have joined together. Rachel looked pained for a second before she admitted, "They are confidential, but I am still entirely within the boundaries of the law."

Kurt frowned at that for just a moment before the truth hit. Ah, of course. Showing those files to anyone else in the house would have gotten her in trouble, but he was safe. He wasn't a person. "What am I looking at?" he asked as he flipped through papers.

"It's an immigration issue," she said carefully.

"That's odd," he said. "Not that you can't work on what you like, but you've made quite a career out of human rights cases. Immigration law, well, I suppose that's related, but it's its own little silo. Right?"

"Specifically," she continued, "it's about immigration to Canada."

His hands stilled on the paper. Of course. It had recently become illegal to own Angels in their neighbor to the north, and the longest undefended border in the world sat between them. Ottawa had already refused to return two Angels described as having been 'stolen' from owners in the Hamptons. They'd screamed all the way there, but then the crusaders who'd raided those parties cut off their collars. Washington argued that the 'thieves' were indeed criminals who had made an illegal crossing at an unmarked spot on the border, and they were within their rights to demand their extradition. Tensions were high.

"A lot of families are crossing," Rachel said quietly, like someone might hear her. "It's not just people taking Angels who are already collared. Families are driving across the border, whether or not they have passports. They're outrunning hunters. I'm working to get their border charges dismissed."

Kurt smiled faintly at the image of a family setting off for some unmarked spot of land in Montana or Minnesota and taking the step between slavery and freedom. Ottawa, so far, had stayed firm to their pledge to stand up against what they labeled as human trafficking. Many in Washington felt the same way, but there were only a few places on the planet that had concentrations of wealth to match New York and Los Angeles. They were the ones about to lose their toys and they were making every effort to hold off progress.

"Why don’t you go?" she asked, still in that soft voice.

Startled, he blinked at her. Then he gestured mutely at the view of all those cabins just waiting to be filled. "They're waiting, and so am I. And we have more rooms in this house than we need, by far. We thought it might be good to have space for the worst-off to be right around help, rather than off on their own."

"I know, but... but Kurt, you and your father could cross. The rest of your family could look after things in the meantime, until you come back."

He shook his head. "What's the point?" She put a hand to her throat to mimic his collar but he shook his head again. "I can't take it off yet, Rachel. What would happen if I went up north and took it off, only for someone to capture me and sneak me back across? I really doubt they'd turn around and give me back to my dad."

"But aren't you _excited_?" she asked. Rachel leaned forward and rested her weight on one of his knees, like she could somehow change his mind with physical proximity. "Oh, Kurt. It's been so long and it's almost _here_ , can't you feel it?"

"It's getting closer," he admitted. Steps were being made. He couldn't let himself get too excited... but steps were being made. "I've waited this long. I'd rather wait for things to all be in place."

"I just want to see things change," Rachel grumped as she retrieved the papers and replaced them in her files. "I just... I have to see you without a collar. It'll break my heart if I don't make it that long."

"You're not that old, Rachel," he instinctively said, although she had fewer years ahead of her than behind. Her hair was cut shorter in an 'acceptable' style for women of her age, and her skin was lined and had spots of sun damage. "And you know you could... well," he whispered.

She could stay. She knew the family, was passionate about their cause, and they could use someone to handle the mountain of paperwork that was sure to hit when they became the guardians of potentially hundreds of damaged people. Their friendship with the ACLU had continued all those years, and he knew it _would_ be handled, but it would also be nice to have a friend taking the lead. Rachel had divorced her husband six years earlier and her attempts at dating seldom ended well. She could stay.

"I can't stay here," Rachel said with a sad smile. "Of course I can't."

"But—"

"Kurt, Miri's pregnant. You know that. I told you that." He knew that her daughter was due in two months, yes. "Aaron just proposed to his girlfriend, so they'll be getting married." She nodded at his weak offer of congratulations, and continued, "I'll be at that wedding ceremony as the mother of the groom. I'll be in that hospital room to see my grandbaby. I'm so excited about all of that. And in return, they'll have their mom and grandma."

"Rachel," Kurt said fiercely when he had the chance to break in, "that also means that you're going to _die._ "

"I know. It's part of the deal." She squeezed his hand. "It just means there's so much I want to see while I'm still kicking around. It's a good motivator. It keeps me busy."

Frustrated and resigned, he nodded. They all _had_ been busy. He and Finn had built a retreat for people in need. Rachel had changed laws with the sheer force of her personal drive. "Everyone's saying Mercedes is a lock for more Dove nominations," Kurt finally said, trying not to sound as sad as he felt. "Great reviews for the latest album." She was based in Nashville, now, with a strong niche audience in the gospel market. Her music was about looking out for those in need, tending to the weak, and other messages she proudly proclaimed were straight from Jesus' teachings. Though he never would have expected to listen to albums from a religious label, Kurt had played every single song and smiled with pride at each new triumph of her voice.

Tina ran a marketing firm that specialized in charities and social issues. Artie, the medical miracle with an unexplained recovery, worked in city planning. He kept an eye out for vulnerable populations. Santana had turned her talent for the attack and clever words toward politics; she was in the state Senate. Puck, to their collective surprise, joined the military and then turned that stretch of service into a career with the police. They liked him; they called his turnaround a real success story.

They all cared about people like him, but it wasn't their only work. Tina's latest efforts had been focused on elder abuse, and Artie had to balance the very real need for homeless shelters with voters outraged at the thought of those buildings lowering their property values. They were all helping, though. They were all doing good things. They hadn't dedicated their lives to a single cause like his family had, but that was all right. The world was a better place for having them in it.

He realized Rachel was talking and tried to focus. "Well-deserved," Rachel agreed. "It's a beautiful album."

"Do you wish you had albums with your name on them, too?" he asked.

"Yes," she shrugged. He hadn't expected such a baldly honest answer. "But I still know I made the right choice for the world we live in. I'm so proud of the work I did choose."

"You could stay," he tried one last time in a whisper.

"No I can't." Her hand squeezed his. Kurt's was unmarked and strong. Hers had begun to crease with wrinkles. "That's also the right choice. Now, you're going to show me around this place and tell me what's new, I'm going to catch up with Finn, and then you're going to introduce me to those littlest ones I saw last time. I'm sure they've forgotten me."

"All right," Kurt relented. "I'll take you to one of the cabins, you can look inside. Very instructive, I suppose."

She squeezed his hand again as he stood to escort her out. He memorized that feeling, as he knew it wouldn't last forever.

  


* * *

In 2051, the mounting frequency of Angels fleeing to Canada rebounded abruptly on the people pushing for tighter laws. The country was tired of hearing about a crusade that called for more police, hurt the economy as Canadian relations faltered, and generally stalled the entire nation to protect the sensual pleasure of its elite. The border was too long. There was too much open space. If ownership was illegal in Canada, it was clearly absurd to allow it there. The number of newly collared Angels had plummeted and many trained ones had been driven to safety.

Not one billionaire in Manhattan or Hollywood celebrity could shout loud enough to overcome the obvious logic of that long border. A few desperate owners actually called for military action if the government refused to return their stolen property. The idea of _war_ over Angels was so absurd that the bubble of tension abruptly broke across the entire nation.

They were no longer society's upper crust and an Angel wasn't a status symbol. They were foolish children throwing a temper tantrum because they wanted to keep slaves who other nations called free. In a wave of backlash that clearly took the elite by surprise, the country decided it was tired of their ridiculous behavior and outlawed ownership.

No child could be collared within national borders.

Any Angels currently owned were required to be set free within forty-eight hours.

For the first time, the industry secret of how to disable the controllers was made public. It was required that owners do so. Possession of a working controller would be punished appropriately.

Each time Kurt heard "the motion passes" on television, he felt just that much dizzier. In one second he was recognized as human—or close enough to it—and the Thirteenth Amendment applied. In the next he was free.

After all that time, could it really be that simple?

"Shouldn't there be... trumpets or something?" he weakly asked. His hand lay against his collar. Instead Congress was moving forward with the next bill under discussion, and the talking heads replacing them onscreen went into an immediate financial and legal analysis of the vote. No one on camera congratulated him. No one welcomed him back to humanity. His entire life had been returned to him with the same care as they'd use for funding farm subsidies.

Strong arms pulled him into a firm hug. Kurt, still staring at the screen, took a long time to realize more than one person was hugging him. His father, two brothers, and a sister all clung to him and said it had finally happened.

"Gotta take care of something," Burt said with a smile as he stepped back. He reached into his pocket and plucked out the controller. Inhaling, he pressed on its corners in the pattern the television had described. The back popped open. Its wiry guts looked vulnerable after so long spent contained. "Want me to rip this thing apart?" Burt asked.

Kurt's eyes widened. He grabbed for the object protectively and shook his head. It wasn't time. It wouldn't be for a while, yet. "Just turn it off."

Though Burt frowned at the moment not being as grand a spectacle as he might have liked, he nodded. His fingers found the named wire and, with a deep breath, he tugged it free. The display on the other side died. The controller was off.

An uneven sigh escaped Kurt. He'd been tied to that thing twice as long as he was free before it; longer, actually. He couldn't look away. His fingers clutched his collar more tightly. It was now nothing more than an inert piece of metal, not unless the controller turned back on. "Put the wire back in," he said nervously.

Burt stared. "What?"

"Turn it back on. We have to see if it still works." Realizing everyone there was looking at him with horror, Kurt shakily explained, "We have to make sure it remembers you as the owner. Someone could take me, turn that on, and set themselves."

His baby sister Brooke looked at him with wide, confused eyes. "But they said no one could own you any more." Many of their family earned the labels 'innocent' and 'naïve' compared to much of the world, but her youth made her especially so.

"I just need to be careful for a while," Kurt reluctantly said. He fidgeted until Burt gave in and tested the controller. It flashed back to life, immediately recognized him as the owner, and he pulled the plug once more. Even if someone kidnapped him, they couldn't reset his collar. "Okay. Okay, good. Can I have it?"

Burt placed the light object in Kurt's palm. Kurt bit at his lip. Even though the screen was black and he couldn't have used it anyway, he pushed the space where an outline of his body had been. There was no pain. He pushed again, harder. His thumb ground against the black screen so firmly that he almost expected to hear the sound of creaking metal and cracking glass.

"Kurt," Burt said softly. Only a choked whine escaped Kurt as he dared the inert controller in his hand to work, and Burt continued, "Okay, everyone. Clear out for now. Go tell Mom the news if she hasn't heard. Everyone pitch in for a nice dinner tonight, okay? Really: go. I mean it." As most people in the room nodded and left, shooting concerned looks as they did, Burt closed the door behind them. "You've been worried about that thing for a long time."

Another almost animalistic noise tore out of Kurt. His chest heaved as he stared at the controller. His hand rose like he was going to throw the thing against the wall, but he just barely managed to control himself.

"Do it," Burt said softly. "Go on. Do you know how long you've been waiting for this? Your life is _back_ , Kurt."

He shook his head. "Not yet. I can't do it yet." Though he probably should have been ecstatic, Kurt felt terrified. He'd carved out a solid, predictable life. Even with his practiced vocabulary, he couldn't explain the overwhelming panic flooding him. "I just... I'm going to go to my room and think."

"Okay," Burt said. A line of confusion dipped between his eyebrows. "You... you do that. I know this has to be a big day for you. It's gotta be a lot to take in."

Kurt nodded shortly and turned on his heel. He pulled open the door, walked through it, and nearly ran up the stairs to the house's highest level.

When he closed his door behind him and dropped to his bed, shaking, he realized that the controller had never started beeping to alert its owner of its location. It was off. The laws had been changed. It was over.

He stared at the small, dark form of the controller on his desk and wondered what he was supposed to feel.

  


* * *

"Wake up," Kurt heard through the glass inset of his door the next morning, after a restless night. He tried to ignore the knocking but it only intensified, and with a groan he rose to glare at the person waiting on his balcony.

"What?" he demanded.

Jennifer smiled brightly back at him. Her curls were pulled back into a messy ponytail with strands hanging free. "The sky cleared up." It had been raining for days. "Come fly with me?"

"I was sleeping," he said. The girl who had once been twitchy and broken had healed, but she was like an obnoxious little sister. Kurt had many little sisters by that point and he felt the 'obnoxious' label was well-earned and researched. He was utterly convinced of her theory about the wings matching the person, because she was _clearly_ soulmates with the irritating jaybirds of the world.

"Now you're not," she pointed out. "Come on," she insisted, drawing the last word out over several seconds. "I'm bored."

"If I do," he asked as he rubbed at his sleepy eyes, "will you go away so I can get some more sleep?" The overwhelming news of the day before struck him again and Kurt's stomach twisted with nerves.

"Possibly," she said, and he figured that was good enough. She clapped happily when he joined her outside. "Let's take them off together, okay?"

"What?" he asked her. Kurt was still in a tee and pajama pants, but considering he was planning on returning to bed, he couldn't be bothered to change.

"Our collars," she said like he was missing something blindingly obvious. "You... you _saw_ the news, right? It's all over! Come on!" she said and tugged his hand toward the edge of the balcony.

"No it's not," Kurt said, realizing why he was so unhappy. "It's still legal to own us in Mexico. The Bahamas. Basically anywhere within a single plane trip. We take these off, it just has to be one person sneaking in to grab us and we're owned until _that_ country changes its laws." He'd had _so long_ to become comfortable with the status quo that this incomplete progress left him terrified. He didn't know how quickly he could move, when he would be safe, or how his life would change now that the world was.

Everything he'd ever wanted was coming true and it left him feeling sick. He hadn't faced uncertainty for a very long time. He couldn't go more than a mile from his father, he built a refuge for a day that would one day arrive, and he served as the responsible big brother to many siblings and one cheerful fellow Angel. That was his life and its rut was decades deep. He'd been in stasis and things were tingling so badly they hurt as he woke up.

"I guess that makes sense," Jennifer said reluctantly. Her fingertips brushed against her collar and she actually pouted. "I guess it's just jewelry now. They don't do anything. We can keep them on for a while longer."

"Right," Kurt said, relieved that she saw his logic.

"Okay, well... race you!" she said as she sprang into the sky.

For a moment Kurt considered letting her race herself until she noticed he wasn't there, but that would prompt at least an hour's whining. She was lighter and could pull off banking moves he'd never dreamed of, but he was stronger and faster. With one put-upon sigh, he chased after her and strained until she was almost close enough to touch.

He almost had her when fog closed around them. It took Kurt a second to realize his failure in logic; of course it couldn't be _fog_ , not up there. It had to be....

Neither of them said anything when they shot above the clouds and their race died a sudden death. It was glorious. On the ground only muddy sunlight had poked through, but it was unchallenged above the cloud cover. From below, the clouds' surfaces were almost flat with a few holes and pockmarks. The tops made mountains.

"The air's thin," Jennifer finally said. Neither of them had dared break the silence for more than a minute.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked. It felt like he couldn't even blink, as he needed to take in every bit of that moment.

"I'm fine. Are you?"

"I'm fine."

They didn't say anything else for a long time. Eventually one of them—asked later, Kurt couldn't say who—stopped hovering and began to move. They traced the curved surfaces, slipped between sunlight and shadow, and dipped back into the clouds only to spring back into open air. "How high are we?" Kurt wondered.

"More than a mile," Jennifer said simply.

He still didn't know how quickly his life might change, but something inside Kurt unknotted and eased as he stared at the top of the clouds. "Wow," he said. Anything more eloquent was beyond him. "I need to go back down. I didn't tell them I was leaving, they'd be worried if they looked."

"Right," Jennifer agreed. "We should go back down. We're coming back up later, though? Right?"

"You'd better believe it," Kurt whispered as he stared for one last minute and then began to slowly descend. That sight had been above him for years, just too high to see. He'd lived for so long already; for most people, it would be nearly a full lifetime. And yet he was just getting _started_ , he realized dizzily as the air began to thicken around him. His life might had stalled for a long time, but even that would seem short in comparison.

There were mountains to the east. He could go see them any time he wanted to, now.

Kurt lightly landed on the balcony and walked inside. The controller still sat where he'd left it on the desk. He laughed breathily at the sight of it and went to pick out his clothes for the day; there was no way he could fall back asleep after that adrenaline rush.

He checked the monitor on his wall and smiled at what he saw. He'd ignored it the night before when he was lost in his thoughts, but he had dozens of messages waiting for him. His oldest friends had tears in their eyes as they said they couldn't believe that the day had finally come. Every one of them who was still alive had left a message, as had many of the people he'd worked with over the years. Three of the previous year's Best Actress nominees had messages in the stack; he had more real friends in Hollywood than any producer.

His pseudo-sister was playing with his real siblings when he eventually ambled downstairs. As the years had passed, her nerves eased and she began to enjoy spending time at their house rather than complaining that she wasn’t out at some glamorous party. She seemed to enjoy having a family, and a big one at that.

"Congrats!" said a voice behind Kurt, and he let out a noise of surprise as arms snaked around his waist. "I heard you went crazy last night and locked your door, but now you're smiling so I guess you're over it?"

"Hi, Finn," Kurt drawled as he extricated himself from the crushing hug.

"Aren't you excited?" he asked insistently. "Everything just got fixed!"

"No," Kurt corrected. For all the years hidden behind Finn's unchanged face, he'd largely kept his sense of innocence. He'd been able to focus on working with his hands and seeing goals hit specific milestones while Kurt dealt with the uncertainty of changing opinions. It was a relief to go back to building cabins after some of his least savory conversations; Finn had never dealt with that. Really, the biggest failure in his life had been to find a partner. He'd managed almost everything else he'd tried.

"What do you mean, no?"

After going through his logic about needing it for protection until other nations changed their laws, Kurt started talking about paperwork, legal ramifications, and countless other niggling concerns. Finn made a face and Kurt finally stopped. "It's a good first step," he allowed, and thought of the sight above the clouds. "It's a huge first step. But there's still more work."

"More work," Finn repeated mournfully. "You know I'm glad I'm here—I _chose_ to be here—but I'm ready to move forward, you know?"

"I do," Kurt agreed, and wondered yet again why Finn had never tried the obvious avenue to correct his one failure.

"Well, anyway, you've gotta be happy," Finn said as he gestured at the family, but he turned away when Kurt expected him to linger. "Everyone else is."

"Uh huh. That's... Finn, I can't believe you've never done this, and I know the collars being turned off is a big milestone. Surely your perceptions must have changed. She doesn't need to travel with George any more, right?"

"Huh?" Finn asked.

"Oh, for the love of... will you just talk to her?" Kurt asked snippily.

"Who?" Finn replied. He sounded genuinely confused.

"Jennifer," Kurt said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Finn and Jen. It works. It's adorable. Go ask her out." He saw the stammered protest building and held up one finger. "You've already had... however many failed relationships, one ended engagement, and it was all because you couldn't trust a woman to deal with this life. Well: ta-da. And she's an Angel. You think we're hot," Kurt said bluntly, because by that point they'd moved well past any pretense.

"She's like a _sister_ ," Finn protested.

"We have the same last name," Kurt retorted. "Do you want me to go over what we've done?"

"Not out _loud_ ," Finn said immediately, then seemed to really consider the question. "You... you think I should?"

"She's happy and emotionally healthy by now," Kurt said with a shrug. "She thinks you're cute, and I swear you two have the same mental age. And now she's free to go wherever she wants. Give it a shot."

"I don't know," Finn began, but immediately countered that with, "Should I?"

"Yes. Try it. I insist." Kurt brushed him away until Finn finally gave in and moved to ask Jennifer if he could talk to her, and he breathed a sigh of relief. While he would still grab the girl to see the top of the clouds, he knew he would need to focus in the years to come and this would capture her attention. It would make Finn happy, too. Kurt's role seemed to be that of a problem-solver, he thought as he smiled at everyone as he passed, accepted their congratulations, and then went to make some calls.

Everyone else could busy themselves with celebration. He knew what was coming and he had to prepare.

Three freed Angels arrived a week later. One of the biggest names in Hollywood was their escort; she explained that some of the _other_ biggest names had thrown them out with no food, money, or possessions. Furious at the change in the laws, they had decided that if they weren't allowed to own them, they would have absolutely nothing to do with their former property. They weren't even given a bottle of water.

"Hi," Kurt gently said as he looked in the back of the truck. The three crouched figures flinched but didn't say anything or look up. "You're safe now, all right?" When they stayed still, he turned and murmured, "Why didn't they try to fly somewhere better? You said they were picked up off the streets?"

"Clamps," she said with disgust and Kurt flinched. He hadn't seen that from his angle. It had become popular to cinch wing bases with precious metals, like heavy cuff bracelets. Sometimes they were studded with gemstones. They were invariably tight enough to limit movement, and, he imagined, prevented flying.

"Okay," he said as he risked stepping up into the back. The truck barely moved under his weight. "There are homes waiting for you here. You don't have to... to _do_ anything any more. And my dad has all sorts of tools. He can get those things off you and you can heal up."

They still stared at the floor when he said that and Kurt realized the problem. They'd just been horribly abused, loaded in a windowless truck, ferried to an unknown destination, and now strangers were telling them that other strangers would take tools to their wings. "It's okay," he promised. "You can trust him. Because he's taken care of me. Look at me? Please?" Still obviously scared, they inched their gazes off the floor and took in the sight there. They stiffened with surprise when they realized he was one of them, and then relaxed some tiny amount.

Kurt smiled. "See? _I'm_ telling you that you can trust everyone here. They're all my family, and there's another Angel. It's safe here. We have homes you can stay in _alone_ and there are locks on the doors."

"Can we eat?" a dark-haired boy asked shakily.

Frowning, Kurt glanced over his shoulder. "You didn't feed them on the way up?" he demanded.

"They were too scared, they wouldn't take it! I offered!"

"You can eat," Kurt promised them as he turned back. "We have trees that you can pick fruit from, gardens... anything you want. It's good here. I swear." He risked reaching out to rest his hands on two of theirs. "Do you want to come out and see?"

"Are there a lot of people?" asked the girl in the back.

"There are, but they're all my family. They're all good. They know me and they help me. And there are animals—" The boy sucked in a breath at that and Kurt frowned. Animals were kind; he didn't understand.

"My... there were dogs," he said. "At my house. They were trained to be mean."

Sadly, Kurt nodded. Just like they could be broken with enough time under trainers, so could animals. It was how the hunters used dogs: they took the natural drive to find and protect them and twisted it into a vicious parody. "They're all nice here. Just like my family. But we can keep them away from you until you're comfortable with them, okay?" The three looked at each other and nodded in jerky motions, and Kurt ventured adding, "What are your names?" They listed three ridiculous names that were clearly not their own, and he nodded. "Okay. Well, if you want to pick a name of your own—one your owner didn’t pick—you can do that. If you want. You don't have to do anything that you don't want," he repeated and hoped they would learn to believe that.

"Who are you?" one asked.

"The Hudson family," he said and stepped out of the truck and into the sunlight. He extended his hand and added, "I'm Kurt." They finally joined him; he just held back his sigh of relief at their decision to leave the truck. Ignoring their driver and assuming she'd understand, he led them to the nearest group of cabins. They had an audience, but thankfully his family knew better than to come too near the new arrivals. There would be time for that later.

The first Angel, sadly renamed Lolita, stared at the cabin Kurt presented to her. "See, the door locks," he explained as he demonstrated it. Walking inside, he gestured to the small kitchen that would usually be ignored in favor of fresh fruit, but could be used to make salads and soups. A wall monitor had been programmed with movies and carefully selected stations. When Angels felt ready they could unlock more, but they wouldn't be taken off guard by surprising imagery. The bed was in the loft, Kurt added; he knew it felt better to be up high. The shower was comfortably sized. There wasn't much space for extras, he admitted, but it was all hers and she didn't need to do anything to earn it.

He could see the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her, and carefully said, "I'm going to show these two their cabins, and then I'll bring food to all of you, all right? I know you must be tired. You can sleep after you eat. No one will bother you."

They hesitated, but nodded. He could see a question in their eyes: "Why are you doing this?" But then they looked at what was behind him and that question died. His very presence gave the only answer they could ever trust.

Once he'd shown the other two to their new homes, Kurt flew as fast as he could manage to the nearest orchard. Apples; fine. He plucked a half-dozen off the first tree, cradled them in his shirt, and returned as quickly as he'd came. They'd certainly fall asleep soon and he didn't want to startle them. They accepted the apples, two apiece, and sniffed curiously at them. One said they smelled different than normal food. They didn't smell dead.

"You're really going to like it here," Kurt promised and then left them to their sleep. He slowly walked back to the main house. He could have traveled faster through the air, but he wanted time to think and knew his family would be waiting with questions. They were: who were they, how were they doing, when could they see them?

"Give them time," Kurt said when he returned, rubbing the space between his eyes. "They don't trust people and we can't let any dogs get close yet, even if they want to. Jen, you can say hello. But if they don't answer, don't push it. Move on. I promised them that they have total control over locking those doors."

He sank down into a waiting chair and suddenly felt very old. In theory his parents were at the top of their small social pyramid. That encounter had told him how much responsibility rested instead on his shoulders. They were the ultimate authorities for their family, true, but Kurt suspected he would fill that role for every Angel who arrived there. They might have a new 'Mom' and 'Dad,' but those were long-forgotten roles. They needed a simpler concept to which to cling and his appearance made him easy to understand.

Things were about to change very quickly for someone used to measuring change in the slow tilt of decades.

"We need to check all the cabins," he slowly began. "Make sure they're ready. Whoever's on orchard duty, they need to be checked. If anything's dropping, bring it up here for you to eat or dry. They'll need everything fresh. It'll help them." He swallowed hard. His heart was beating as fast as it had the first time he'd risen above the clouds.

Things were about to change. Finally, he could believe that things were about to change.

"Let's get to work," he said, and everyone did.

  


* * *

One month passed and nearly three dozen Angels arrived.

That didn't last, as several left after a few weeks in their cabins. One left after only three days. They were used to mansions and silk sheets. They hadn't dressed, bathed, or groomed themselves since they'd been sold. "Please," Burt begged one as she readied herself to take off. "You don't want to do this."

"I talked to a man in Dallas who'll give me everything I want," she said shakily. "You can't make me stay here. I hate it here."

Kurt tried to grab her hand but she shook free, demanding that they not force her to do what they wanted. He tried to explain that she was so broken that she couldn't _know_ what she wanted, but every attempt was interrupted. She wanted to go and if they kept her there it would be against her will. "All right," he finally, brokenly said. "We won't force you to stay."

With one last look of disgust around their mountain retreat, she launched herself into the air and flew in the direction of that man's bed. "It's a valid option," Kurt finally said when he'd watched her fly away. "She's right. I can't forbid people from doing it. Even if that path's been beaten in, I can't _stop_ them."

"You can't save everyone," Burt sadly agreed. "We'll just make things better for who we can."

Even among those who had stayed, not all were happy but didn't see any better option. Many were utterly broken and needed time to get better. The ones in the house were the worst. One boy broke down crying for no apparent reason. Carole rushed in to comfort him when his wails floated downstairs and he said that he didn't know how to deal with that being the first day in seventeen years when someone hadn't killed him.

Things were very quiet for a while after that as the overwhelming magnitude of their suffering sank in. Some Angels arrived on their own, having heard about the refuge, and they landed without warning. All pleaded for a spot. Some were naked except for their collars.

Jennifer, who'd studied animals as she began to enjoy the countryside, identified each pair of wings as they came and made predictions about their behavior. They came to realize it wasn't only an apparently accurate reflection of their personalities, but also an indicator of what might help them. Wings from birds of prey meant they were probably introverts and should be given space. Others were more gregarious and could risk earlier contact. A weaver needed a hobby with his hands, and a canary and nightingale began to sing together on rooftops. Their voices were beautiful and Kurt wanted to join them, but he couldn't be all things to all people. If those two became each other's rock, all the better for it.

Some Angels craved sexual contact like food and drink. After a few failed attempts the family let them move between cabins as they pleased; it seemed heartless to deny anything that offered comfort. Even if they hadn't chosen the suffering that drove them to those needs, each Angel finally had the chance to give consent.

It wasn't what Kurt had expected. He'd known that Burt and Carole would oversee all of the Angels, but they were the heads of that human family while the Angels looked to him. He hadn't considered that Angels who'd only known rape for decades would keep looking toward sex as a kneejerk response, or that they'd even leave the refuge to find effective new owners.

One day he heard laughter and looked up. The girl with the canary wings and boy with the nightingale were on a rooftop, but they were talking instead of singing. He pointed to the sky, she nodded, and they both lifted into the air together.

Kurt smiled lopsidedly.

It was a start.

  


* * *

Two more Christmases passed. The majority of nations had outlawed ownership, but Kurt still shook his head whenever it was suggested that he take off his collar. Some of the Angels there had gone for the quick removal: one cut through the spike that joined collar to spine. A small metal circle lay flush with their skin. That remaining stub of the spike would make it harder to collar them again, but Kurt didn't trust it to keep him safe.

The news that night said that, as part of its motions to halt human trafficking, the UN would support all retrieval missions for Angels taken from free nations. It caught the world by surprise, as it was such a dramatic statement to make and some Council members still allowed ownership. Pundits explained that those slave nations seemed to have been placated by allowing ownership of Angels found within their borders. And the UN's resolution was a political statement aimed squarely at the cartel, which would now think twice about making a grab for a free person.

"Okay," Kurt said as he stared at the anchor reading that announcement. "Let's do it."

He couldn't be killed permanently but he could feel tremendous pain. Because of that, Burt found a trained surgeon willing to make the drive up from the city. He'd know just where to make the cuts. "Pleasure to meet you," said Dr. Chopra as he extended his hand.

"And you," Kurt said lightly as he shook it. His voice sounded thin as he tried to cover his nerves. "I thought we could test me first to see how it goes, and then you can move on to anyone else who wants it?"

"Anyone else," Dr. Chopra repeated as he turned to the hillsides. Cabins' porches were occasionally dotted with wings. Like he only then realized what he might be missing, he looked up at the sky and saw a few figures making great, looping arcs in the air. "Of course," he said in an awed whisper.

His attitude soon changed. "You can't be serious," he stammered as the pair gravely drove him down to the garage along the highway. With the dwindling town population, Burt had long since moved to being a specialized mechanic who worked on imports that people would ship across the country. He didn't need other employees, except for occasional family helpers, and the place was empty. "Surgery has to take place in sterile areas."

Inhaling deeply, Kurt began to unbutton his shirt and nodded at his father. The man nodded back and began to arrange a low workbench. "It's impossible for me to get an infection," he said. "And the blood vanishes, but still, I like the idea of having a drain. Really, it's the noise," he explained to Dr. Chopra when the man's horror remained undiminished. "I'm going to scream and I don't want the others to hear. It'll put them off of the idea."

"You won't scream," the doctor protested. "You'll be asleep."

"I can't be sedated," Kurt said as he carefully set his shirt aside, knelt down, and rested his head on his arms. He stretched his neck to make the work easier to do. "No medications work on me. And electrical shocks only knock me out for a few seconds. I'll have to be awake when you work."

Dr. Chopra stared at him and then said, "You realize that collar is embedded in your spine. This will take _hours._ "

"No it won't," Kurt said. "You're going to cut through my spinal cord as quickly as you can, so you kill me before I feel too much. Please cut it again if you see it start to regenerate. Then you're going to remove the vertebra with metal in it. I'll grow a new one, everything will heal and close, and I'll wake up." A hand lightly patted him on the shoulder. He knew it was Burt. They'd had a long time to get used to the idea of what would have to happen.

The good doctor hadn't. "I'm sorry," he said bluntly. "I took an oath. I can't possibly do this."

He should have expected that. "Dad?" Kurt sighed, standing. "Have anything sharp handy?"

When Dr. Chopra had watched several fingers regenerate—Kurt asked him to _please_ not require a death demonstration, promising that he knew from experience—he shakily nodded. "All right. I'd heard, but I hadn't believed it. All... all right. Let's get the majority of the collar cut off first, it'll help me work."

Kurt stood there silently as the two men unlatched his collar and cut it away from the spike. The thin circle of his neck that it exposed felt cold in the open air. He brushed his fingertips down the length of his neck and sucked in an unsteady breath. It felt wrong.

"You'll get used to it," Burt quietly said. "Stay calm. It's like wearing a ring for a long time, you'll get used to it being gone."

"Okay," Kurt said tightly as he knelt back over the bench. His chest heaved with deep breaths. "Let's do this."

The high-pitched whine of Dr. Chopra's small circular saw made him flinch. He knew it was coming and it would be a good thing, but oh, this would hurt. It would hurt. It would—

There was one sharp moment of indescribable pain when a scream tore out of him, and then as numbness swept him he fell away into endless night.

"Kurt?" he heard quietly when his eyes fluttered open. He was still dizzy. What had just happened? "Just lie there for now, okay? The nerves are all still healing. But you're...." He realized it was the doctor talking. He sounded astonished. "You're going to be fine."

Kurt rolled his head to the side until he found his watchful father. "Is it out?" he whispered.

"It's out," Burt confirmed. His eyes glistened as he smiled.

Fumbling, Kurt brought his hand up to his neck. It still felt bare and wrong, but he forced himself to ignore that as he slid his hand flat around the back to probe at the flesh over his spinal column. It was unbroken. There was no metal anywhere. "I want to see it. I want to see it out of me."

"The bone vanished," Burt explained as he placed something into Kurt's palm. "But there's...."

Finally able to sit up, Kurt did so as he examined the silver spike in his hand. How long had it been since that spike was driven through his flesh? How far had his life come since he'd been dragged up a flight of stairs and thrown into the back of a van? "It's out," he said as he slowly studied the element that had made him unable to run, unable to fight back, and had limited his freedom for decades. It was so small. He'd pictured something massive, despite how skin stretched right over spines, but it wasn't even an inch long.

He had to call someone.

"I'm going to go tell the others they can come down, all right?" he asked Dr. Chopra as he stood and began pulling his shirt back on. "Can you just stay here?" When the man nodded, he gave a short goodbye and then quickly covered the trip to the house. The first Angels he saw got an overview of what was down at the garage, if they wished to take advantage, as well as a warning for the pain.

His footsteps picked up speed as he moved. As he passed the cuddling couple in the living room, Kurt said to Jennifer that it worked, she could get it cut out that very afternoon. That wasn't his focus, though, and he kept running up the stairs.

"Oh," Rachel gasped as her face came up on the monitor. Her hand covered her mouth. " _Oh._ I'm so glad I got to see this."

He excitedly showed her the unmarked back of his neck, then talked about how strange it felt to have that ring of skin exposed to the air. It was paler than the rest of his skin, nearly pure white after so long in the shadows, and he wondered how long it would be before that reminder faded. "I have to call everyone," he continued. "You've just done so much work for us here that I had to call you first. You had to know we're doing this. Some of us already cut them off down to the stubs, but... but we're doing this. All of it. Permanently."

"That's so wonderful," Rachel said. Her worn face smiled.

"It took so long," Kurt said as his joy faded. "You're... Rachel, I don't want to say this, but...."

"I'm old." She waved off the words. "I know it's supposed to be 'a state of mind,' but let's not lie to ourselves: I'm old. As unfair as it is to you, I've had the chance to live nearly a whole lifetime while you've been waiting for yours to really start. But now it's going to. And it's going to be perfect," she said.

"I have to call everyone," he deflected as she raised the horrible reminder of the age she wouldn't let him fix. "I'll talk to you later, all right?" After they made their goodbyes he called another old friend; Mercedes actually squealed with excitement when she saw. A beautiful home was visible behind her; Kurt wished she weren't at the opposite corner of the country.

He called more old friends and new friends made since his relocation from Ohio. The 'owners' who'd helped their cause all cheered. One musician even said he'd come throw a party until Kurt reminded him how damaged many of their new visitors were, and he quickly amended that to writing a new song to celebrate.

With the calls done, he sat back and thought about the faces he'd seen. The old ones had lived such full, meaningful lives. The young ones had such potential. He wondered when members of his family would decide they wanted lives beyond the valley and would step back into the passage of time. Many of the 'good owners' kept young had already privately told them they were tired of being recluses, and would begin aging as soon as the laws changed. Jennifer had stopped looking after George.

Pushing his brother toward someone who would also want to keep him young, Kurt admitted, had some selfish motives. But flashing back to Rachel's face and Mercedes' pure white hair, he couldn't bring himself to care. Even as he was on the brink of a whole new life for himself, he knew he would soon lose many of the people he cared about.

It was natural. He loved the natural world, after all. He knew how to coax the most food and greatest enjoyment from every season. He'd healed a fawn with a leg trapped between two rocks, watched her grow and have babies of her own, and eventually she'd laid down to die.

Her lifecycle had been so short compared to his friends', but they were all finite. They were well into their winters while he was finally stepping into a spring with no visible end. It felt almost wrong to think about _spring_ and everything it brought with it—life and love—when his oldest friends were declining by the day.

But, Kurt allowed, it was what they'd wanted for him. His life was finally opening up. They would be happy if he celebrated that opportunity, not denied it because he was too busy mourning their loss while they still walked the earth. He should celebrate, and he would. He just had to do what people needed him to handle, first.

  


* * *

Fruit trees' branches hung low and heavy with life. Puppies played with Angels and humans alike. Pairs and trios of their rescued visitors walked or flew off into the forest to explore, and others sat in their homes and began to read about the world of which they'd been kept ignorant. Someday many of them would move back out into the world, but some had already asked if they could stay among. There was plenty of room on their land. Full houses could be built and they'd do the work themselves.

While most of the people there enjoyed the summer sun, Kurt sat inside in front of a monitor and frowned.

"I know this is short notice, but the guy was just arrested for ownership. He's hauled away, but no one knows what to do with who we rescued," said the face on the opposite end.

Disgusting, that someone would still try to get away with slavery. And there were no clear-cut answers for what to do. With the global origins of Angels, there was a surprising hold-up over granting them official documents. They had nothing to prove they'd been born in any nation and while most would grant them citizenship when asked, it had become a process of years. Kurt had access to the best resources in the world and even his work had inched along.

"I don't know if we have room," Kurt said dubiously, but chastised himself for the words as soon as he'd said them. Officially all their cabins were full, as were the rooms in the house. He didn't doubt that all but the most traumatized Angels would agree to share a cabin if it meant someone else could be safe, and some of his siblings had become roommates to free up more space. Still, there were limits. The Angels were pairing off in groups of new friends, and those support systems would be good, but they still needed time with wholly healthy people. Until other Angels moved further through recovery, there were only so many members of his family to go around. "We'll find room, we'll find room," he promised.

"Good, we kind of assumed you would." There was a short pause. "Uh, we're about half an hour down the road."

Kurt looked flatly at the monitor. "You're not kidding, are you?" A sheepish grin was his only answer. "I guess I'd better go get things ready, then," he said for a farewell.

Outside was bustling with activity. Carole was showing one of the dog packs to a pair of curious Angels, who knelt down when she said it was all right. The dogs yipped with excitement and promptly licked the pair all over. They laughed and petted their squirming new friends.

Burt was teaching others further off how to repair their own cabins. Self-sufficiency was important, as were tasks to offer a sense of pride and accomplishment. He smiled and nodded when a lanky boy managed to wield his tools, and then corrected a girl's grip. She soon earned similar praise. He looked proud of them all.

Finn was further down the valley, though Kurt couldn't see him. It was what Finn always did at that time of day. He took Angels for tours of the land, either by foot or by vehicle. They heard about responsibilities that needed to be tackled, such as tending the orchards, checking fences, and surveying for poachers. He knew what it felt like to be uncertain of what to do with one's life, he explained. His approach, of showing people everything and letting them choose their path, had led to Angels who seemed proud of even the simplest tasks.

"Hey," Kurt said as he approached the only other Angel there who served as a caretaker, rather than being in recovery. "I need to talk to you about—"

"Newcomers?" Jennifer grinned.

"They talked to you earlier?" Kurt asked flatly. "Oh, well, good to know that people are keeping me in the loop."

"There are a few other refuges, you know," she explained. "Smaller. Just humans running them. They wanted to figure out if they could get away with sending them there before they asked you, and I thought not." She'd become excellent with building records on each new Angel as he or she arrived. She delicately asked the right questions to get a feeling for what their ownership had been like, how many times they'd been sold, and how long they'd been collared. That, coupled with her identification of the wings, put them in a far better place to help the newcomers.

Perhaps she would have been a scientist if she stayed at home, Kurt thought, with her curiosity and theories. Perhaps she still could be. "All right. Who do we have?"

She always referred to the newcomers by their wings, as they didn't want to assume they liked hearing their current name. "Magpie. Probably very intelligent, but has been owned by the same _very_ old man for twenty years. Give him something to occupy his attention, I think. Books, puzzles, whatever."

Kurt nodded and made a mental note to move some of the books from his room to whatever cabin they found. It'd be a start, at least. "And?"

"Couple of all-whites, so who knows on personality." She shrugged. "There's so much variation, you guys really bug me. You ruin the whole theory."

"Sorry," he said dryly.

"Um, looks like pretty standard treatment, sad to say. Twelve years owned and sixty-three. There's an eagle—golden—so he'll be a loner and will want to hang back, probably. Ouch, kept getting sold during bankruptcies. Twenty years overall. And a girl with...." Jennifer pulled back from the paper. "Oh, right. Myna wings. Well, _she's_ going to be talkative."

Kurt eyed her as she described the girl's predicted behavior, then her blue wings, and said nothing. "Right," he finally decided as he looked around the hillsides. "Do you mind asking people for room? I'll go get the supplies." With a nod she flew off to find willing roommates, and Kurt turned back to the house.

Overhead a trio of friends flew east toward the virgin mountains. There were still valleys where no human had walked in that range, and it was an easy morning's flight for all but the slowest Angels. It was a popular place for solitude, relaxation, and healing. He hadn't gotten to explore as much as he might like, but that was because he had responsibilities to meet. He knew he was very lucky to have a life demanding those responsibilities rather than one leaving him broken and needing a place of healing. There would be time for that in the future. There would be time to focus on himself in the future, like Finn had apparently found someone. For now, he had a job to do.

He just barely got things in order before the truck arrived. Kurt would have liked to think it would be the last one, but if more Angels were in need, they'd find the room to take them. As soon as some recovered enough to work construction they could build more cabins, he supposed. "Here," he said, gesturing the truck toward a parking spot. It came to a halt and the driver hopped out to open the back.

After a short introduction the group inched out into the sun. Even surrounded by Angels, and even with his face in the mirror, their refined appearance always took Kurt by surprise. The girl with white wings moved like a dancer seeking an audience; she seemed highly discomfited by suddenly being one of many Angels in an isolated hideaway. He sadly made a note to watch her as another potential flyaway; some of their newcomers had their lives so centered on other people's approval that they couldn't take the quiet.

Most seemed unsurprisingly overwhelmed. That was standard; they'd been through so much and their lives had changed even more in the past week before arrival. The boy with the copper-brown eagle wings stayed back, but remembering Jennifer's words Kurt let him have his space.

They occasionally found Angels who, despite all logic to the contrary, had maintained some core of themselves. It was very rare, though. Kurt could see from dealing with the four Angels around him that they were not so fortunate and would need a long, quiet time to rebuild. He called over a few older residents, gave them the cabin numbers, and asked them to escort the group over. Perhaps some friendships would be formed along the way, and that would be of huge help. He knew he couldn't look after everyone himself.

"Oh," Kurt said as he turned, and just resisted the urge to hit himself on the forehead. He'd been put so off-balance by the sudden arrival that he hadn't gone through his typical checklist. The last boy was so quiet that he'd forgotten to find him an escort. "Ah, and I'll take you myself!" he said brightly like he'd planned it all along.

"It's pretty here," the boy said when they'd walked for a ways. Kurt could catch the hint of an accent there, but he'd almost lost that sign of his original home. His high cheekbones and warm brown eyes suggested Korea, or perhaps Japan.

That was, Kurt admitted sadly to himself, perhaps why he seemed withdrawn but still a person. Boys of Asian heritage had been in less demand than girls, and his rich brown wings were the least popular color for any collector. There were certain traits that made Angels popular commodities, as disgusting as it was to admit, and the most ego-driven owners would bid higher for features that society said were superior.

He'd studied how that _industry_ worked; he'd had to, to discuss it with people as he tried to convince them to fight it. If it were possible to say that anyone were a _better_ slaveowner and torturer, those people who didn't have to check off every 'acceptable' item on a description of their prize were probably it. He'd found, talking to people, that higher prices often led to worse treatment. The owners felt like they deserved that more than anyone.

For a moment he felt unsettled over letting anyone off the hook even that much, but he moved past it in the next. Anything that left an Angel in better condition than 'utterly broken' was good. He had to be rational about matters.

"It is pretty," Kurt agreed as they walked. "I hope you like it here. You can stay as long as you like, you know. You don't have to do anything to earn it. It's just... safe. And you don't have to worry."

"That'd be nice," he said with a catch in his voice. It reminded Kurt that even if his suffering was less, those cruel owners _had_ still made him suffer. A lesser crime was still a crime.

"Um," Kurt began. He realized that he'd gone a very long time without having a real conversation with a newcomer. He'd let himself become consumed with the management side of things while life moved on around him. "What's your name? The name you _want_ to use?"

The boy opened his mouth but paused as he considered that. When he smiled, Kurt knew what he was thinking: he'd been about to say the name his last owner had given him, but he didn't have to. "Jae," he said with near-disbelief. "My real name is Jae." He gave the impression of choosing each word very carefully, just like he looked at the world around him with intense focus, but that sentence had spilled out of him.

"It's good that you remember it," Kurt said. He was probably Korean, then. There were certainly other parts to the name he might not remember, but that was better than most Angels had. "We have a lot of books you can read. You can go anywhere you like, of course... have you ever flown?"

"Now and then." Though his words were terse, he didn't seem put off by Kurt's questions. He simply seemed to cover his thoughts quickly, without need for ornamentation. "It was a lot of fun," he allowed.

"You can go," Kurt encouraged him. "There are so many mountains to the east, and lakes... it's beautiful. Really. There's this _enormous_ canyon to the west, too. Some of the people here have started having races through it," he added lightly. It had become quite a mark of honor to make it through 'Hell and Back' first, as they'd started calling it in a play on the canyon's name.

"Will you go?" Jae asked. Kurt blinked, and he explained, "You said those other pairs should spend time together."

Though Kurt began to apologetically say that he had _so_ much to do in running the refuge, the words died in his throat. He had to get out from in front of a monitor. He had to go outside again. Others could take up the slack. "I'd really like that," he said.

"Good," Jae said and smiled. Even with his withdrawn, quiet nature, likely a protective shell after whatever he'd gone through, that smile seemed real. Kurt found himself smiling back as their eyes met. That gaze lingered longer than he'd expected and, coughing, Kurt turned back to their path and led him toward his home. He'd just _had_ to choose a distant cabin number, meaning they had so long to talk.

"What's your name?" Jae asked and Kurt realized he'd never given it.

"It's...." The immediate answer, practiced over decades, died in his throat. Kurt blinked as a breeze rushed past. The valley was warm and green below them. Life was at its peak in the world and his had just been returned to him. He'd just heard back from lawyers who said his new paperwork was being filed.

His life was moving forward and his life was back.

A weight Kurt didn't realize he'd been carrying for so long lifted free. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath of air scented with grass and pine, and said, "I'm Kurt Hummel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Thank you so much for reading. I'll occasionally write one-shot follow-ups when inspiration hits, as I don't want to let go of this AU just yet. But the main story is finally, surprisingly completed. (I wondered, at times.) Thanks to everyone who's let me know that they read and enjoyed it, here and on LJ; it was great motivation to keep working on what became an increasingly massive story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Strange Ways of Fandom and Those Who Know About It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/205870) by [TerresDeBrume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume)




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